Fair warning: firstly, it is J. writing again or at least the writer formerly known as J. (now j.b.w as I have joined the orble community). Secondly, T, once again, is having too much fun to be bother with the likes of you. Thirdly, I was severely reprimanded, and my comment removed, for using the word ‘breasts’. So, I will not use the word ‘breasts’ in this post. Not even if I were to discuss the preparation and cooking of chicken ‘breasts’. I certainly will not mention T’s ‘breasts’, lovely as they are, and hell will freeze over before I even dare think about imagining the words ‘my man breasts’ again.
I slept terribly last night, or rather, I tried to sleep last night. I gave up around four in the morning and just watched TV. When I dragged myself out of bed, I wagged my chin at my housemate and eventually, took a shower. Clean, I went outside to perform a task most inspired by lethargy. I took one shirt off the line and put it on, instead of bringing all the washing in. Now prepared for the day, I searched for breakfast.
Years ago, when T and I first started dating, she made me a potted herb garden. The pots were washing tubs, now sun damaged and brittle. Every time I move them to mow the lawn, bits crack and crumble underneath my ham-fisted, inelegant hands. But the herbs themselves are luscious. Into spring, the leaves are big, pungent, plentiful. They form the basis of two pasta recipes that I may tell you about one day. But a breakfast cannot be made for herbs alone. Which is unfortunate, because along with T’s departure from Australia, went my desire to cook.
But fortunately, the garden did not stop at herbs: beans, celery, pumpkins— all neglected in T’s absence, but still all surviving. Thriving, however, thriving are the strawberry plants. You can’t stop them. Throw soil in a pot. Throw a runner in the soil in the pot. Bam, blink and you get a pot full of strawberries.
Zombified from a lack of sleep, eye’s squinting, I foraged for those rubies of the garden. I found five or six plump, ripe berries. I ate them on the spot, throwing the leafy tops as far as I could. With each bite, I remembered T. The way she smiles at my jokes, still. How she brought me freshly baked biscuits when I was playing Super Street Fighter 4, for absolutely no reason. How she forgets herself and starts singing while washing the dishes.
Finishing my strawberries, with juice running down my chin, I realised there are worse ways to start the day.
PS: I lied. Breasts.