Breakfast and Lovers, an Essay

My current lover sits across from me at breakfast, eating the meal he has prepared for us using whatever I had in my refrigerator at the time.  Which likely was not much, given I had recently stopped cooking and buying any major amount of groceries altogether.  I no longer saw the point.  It's an omelette he has made for me this Sunday morning, filled with cheese and mushrooms with the addition of a certain brand of salsa, one of his favorites and now one of mine. It's spring, and getting warmer, a very good time of year for me, yet one that he dreads to a certain serious degree.

I say he is my current lover, because, although I am very happy with this arrangement, I know there will be more men, and that there is still time for that.  I also know this relationship will eventually end, as it  has been made clear to me by him that I am not the "one". This relationship is a matter of convenience for both of us, fleeting, yet viable for the moment, and then gone the minute he leaves my bed. I am satisfied with that. We have made room for a secret life we created, this past year or so, that no one knew about.  Perhaps many suspected. We will end this maturely as friends do, or so I had sworn.

I watch him eat breakfast, something that endlessly fascinates me. Each food type is sectioned out on his plate just the right way, and he allows himself to eat only one item at a time.  Each bite is contemplated and carefully planned out from beginning to end.  My lover is like this. Planning, creating, inventing, and paying attention to the details of his everyday life.  He remembers nearly everything I have ever said, every place we had gone, and certainly every time I ever got mad at him. I, on the other hand, appear a more scattered individual.  I live from the heart, and he lives from his mind.

My lover fucks like a freight train.   A train that comes at you full steam, fills your body and endlessly cranks forward and does not stop. His hands are strong. They have left marks on me from holding me down as he drives into me. He is silent, never making any sound, even when he finishes.  When he is done with me he often has to carry me to the shower because my legs can no longer hold me up to walk.  It's amazing, and I am left breathless, buzzing and weak every single time.

Now, right now,  at present time, I sit here looking back at that breakfast, and that time, and wonder if I had ever given a thought to the future but for more than the next time I would lay with him.  I know that I did not. How was I to know there would be so much less of him for me when the subtle darkness took over me during the fall and winter that followed?  How was I to foresee the beginning of the end? I could no longer shake the darkness off, and I succumbed.  In the fallout of that winter of depression and darkness, I lost my lover to no one, only to himself and the safety of his own mind and details of his day. The fear of what I had become not only frightened me, as he saw it and it frightened him too. I don't blame my lover for leaving. I can only miss him endlessly now.

I had fallen in love with him.  He never knew or noticed that I did that I could tell.  And I certainly could never tell him. It ended badly, with weeks of tears and the pain of rejection radiating through me like a fire gone wild. There was no forgiveness, and no kindness shown me in the end.  I had robbed myself of that opportunity by blistering him with the fallout of a depression fraught with self loathing and gripping fear that would not let go of my head and heart. Depression robbed me of my lover and best friend, and it also robbed me of everything that I was as a person.

And now I eat breakfast alone, at the table we once shared.  I have sectioned each item into it's own place on the plate.  I slowly finish my omelette before moving onto the toast, and then the hash browns, and finally the danish I bought at the bakery that make the ones he once loved.  There is no conversation to be had, no flash of his smile, no leftover body buzz from making love.  It is just my breakfast, eaten slowly, with intention and purpose, forced down so I do not starve, while I wait for the last remaining remnants of his touch to leave me, and for my next lover to arrive.

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