Breakfast
The smell of fresh brewed coffee and sausages frying in the pan drew him up out of bed and into the kitchen. It was arrayed much in the same way it always was with floral place-mats and silverware exhibited on the table as though the morning bore no uniqueness or significance to any other. The only unfamiliar mark was the collection of flowers in a banded vase on the sill, giving him a reminder of the thorny reality. She hardly saw him sit down against the golden windowpane through the grease smoke from the stove and her own pivoting labor. She said nothing to him, instead going over and giving an embrace that was close and still and prolonged. She took a seat at the table and wiped her eyes. "Did you sleep good?", she asked him. "Not really", he said. "Where'd those flowers come from?" "Oh, those." She looked up from her mug. "The Williamson family dropped them off earlier. They came with a sympathy card and they apologized for not ...