Cold, cold mornings. Seventeen degrees outside, no more than sixty inside, I pull myself out of bed like a marionette. Turn the shower up to steaming, run a comb through my hair (when did it get so long, I wonder, looking down at strands below my shoulders), waiting to wake up. Wake up. It’s awful getting up before dawn.

When I finally manage to drag myself out, in a towel, hair on top of my head, she’s standing there smiling at me. Like she’s got some smug secret. I’m confused. And then I see–she made me breakfast.

Aw. She doesn’t even have to work today.

One Response to winter

  1. backlist says:

    awwww! that’s wonderful!

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