As he tip toed across the wooden floor in his white linen pajamas, he wished that the sound of the creaks wouldn't wake her up. The first light broke calmly on her face through those thin cream curtains. Today he would make breakfast for her. It was one of those few days when he beat the alarm and wanted to do something about it. He entered the kitchen and thought to himself how best he could put his amateurish skills to use. He hoped burning the place down wasn't one of them. So he heated the pan and prepared the batter. Tossed the pancakes and beat the eggs. Popped the kettle and placed the cups. Put the rose in that vase and sang that song ever so silently as he did that little dance. He was at his cheekiest best and he loved it.
When suddenly he heard her giggling across the room. Startled, he turned around, only to see her wearing his oversized green checked shirt from office yesterday. Without saying a word, she walked towards him, pecked him on his lips and said "the Breads' burnt, Mr. Cook."
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