“Breakfast,” Second Draft

I am holding a styrofoam cup, resembling the sliver of moon I was on that hot July morning. I am outside myself, slipping into something completely unknown. My ring finger remains barren, and two white flecks paint my middle right finger near the tip. Here I am, in one of my favorite pictures of the first photos we took as a couple, on that morning we ate at the bar of your neighborhood diner.

I am awkward and un-showered, my hippy length brown hair hanging in strands around my thin, pale face. You, sit to my left, dipping a Southern biscuit into creamy chunks of mushroom gravy. I remember looking down at my plate of greasy toast and stray scrambled eggs, pushing my fork around as small talk.

We weren’t even a couple yet, actually, and for this reason, the photo of my hands nursing something lukewarm in the hot July sun seemed sweet and more intimate than I felt.

This was how you wooed me, slowly, and way to quickly, over breakfast, Sunday after Sunday. Until my hands naturally gravitated toward yours.

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