Microwave pancakes. They ALWAYS hit the spot that time of morning. She hits open on the microwave, notices the coffee cup, and sighs. His routine. He'd make the coffee, but he'd get distracted by an email, something with work, and the coffee would cool to room temperature. Then he'd notice the heat missing from it, walk the five feet to the kitchen, and place it in the microwave. The 60 seconds will pass, the heat has returned, but he hasn't. Distracted, again. The beeping of the microwave would continue, and by the time he'd get up to go get it, the heat was gone again. The cycle continues, spinning on and on until she breaks it. Until she heats it up for him, and brings it to his desk. He will say thank you without looking up from his screen.
They are so similar, so obviously related. Long legs and blue eyes, a love for photography and art deco. Cursive handwriting sprawled across various notebooks and notepads. Horror movies based on Stephen King novels, and italian dinners on early fall evenings. But most of all, their quietness, and love of solitude. She has her mother too, but her father first. They aren't close, but she still heats up his coffee when he can't seem to. Tradition isn't something they are fond of, so I guess this pattern will suffice.
She won't tell him she is sad, not yet. Truth is she can't, she can't talk to him. The last time she did there was SO much yelling. And what did it do? It came back. Her pattern, her cycle. Her lukewarm coffee that never gets heated, never gets consumed. She never gets fixed.
But the microwave pancakes will get eaten, in her room. They hit the spot. They ALWAYS hit the spot.
