So for the past four months I’ve lived with Sarah, she has never ceased to amaze me with her timely 10 o’clock bedtime, her impeccable white teeth, and her curious affection for Mexican cuisine. Dinners at our house are interesting. They usually go something like this:
It’s 5pm and I come barging through the front door, kick off my shoes, launch my book bag onto the futon and immediately pull a bowl of bran flakes and cold milk to my chin. Meanwhile, Sarah is chopping onions and letting eggs sizzle on the stove. She prepares a bowl of guacamole, smothering avocado with garlic and salt. A pile of black beans makes a steam cloud and tortillas brown on a skillet. Smelling her dinner makes me wish my bowl contained something warm and spicy instead of soggy cereal. Sarah constructs a plate of breakfast burritos, carefully adding each component like it’s the most important. Finally, her slender frame lowers to the plate of food waiting at the table. I stare at her take perfect bites from the burritos, wondering if her breath will smell like garlic when she’s finished.
No comments:
Post a Comment