The Sunlight That Didn't Come Through The Blinds.
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Written by Nunyo Bidness
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Sunday, 09 March 2008 |
To Jack, dinner never felt as important as breakfast. Dinner was draining. It took hours to prepare a good dinner, while it took minutes to prepare a breakfast of equal caliber. Jack ate a bowl of cereal, maybe two, alongside two eggs, one piece of toast, grape jelly, no butter, and iced tea. He didn't drink with breakfast like his wife did.
Jack woke up between four and five AM, sometimes still dead tired. He always made breakfast and never went back to bed before noon. Habits stick. He was working on his 37th year of early rising. In his younger days, when the long nights meant something instead of an unwillingness to sleep, he would still get up before the sun did.
His wife was always beautiful when he woke up. The blinds were shut. He turned over and faced her before getting out of bed, and smiled the same way he did twenty-two years ago when he woke up next to her for the first time.
Over the years, Jack warmed his truck in the driveway near the bedroom window up earlier and earlier in the morning, taking tough hands and the same pair of jeans as yesterday with him. His wife would wake up and come out to the kitchen. She would see Jack's plate and the pan used for the eggs in the washer and his half-finished glass of tea, full of ice, sitting on the tile counter next to the kniferack. They were quiet mornings, in the cab of Jack's truck, or back in the kitchen he left behind.
Copyright 2008 Nunyo Bidness
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Last Updated ( Saturday, 12 July 2008 )
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