yes. pancakes. I tell her pancakes for sure. breakfast is her thing. I stay in bed. warm and listening to soft alt country music. sun coming through the window. summer days. slow. summery smells and humidity. the a/c clicks on and the air is cool the hum. the hum of switches and fuses.
I hear clicks and clanks in the kitchen. I imagine she wears an apron. tussled hair. dripping pancake batter. it sizzles and pops. blue-berry. maple syrup. i can almost taste them.
the beach, or thrift stores, food shopping, doing the lawn, watching t.v., book stores, comic shops, surfing, driving, going in the pool, bbq, holding hands, making-out, Frisbee, drumming, kung-fu, parks, .......... summer is hot and slow and I don't want to do anything, say anything, write anything. I like music, books and breezes. I like the ocean. not sharks. I like the way jellyfish look drifting toward the sunlight. almost invisible. sometimes i wish I were.
I am sleepy. reality bores me. I like her voice, and her hands and her fixin breakfast.