Exhibit A: He makes me feel safe.
Exhibit B: He listens when I talk.
Exhibit C: He can cook a steak that should be classified as a controlled substance.
Exhibit D: He holds me like he means it.
The jury rests. I’m doomed.
Carefully, I slide out of bed, trying not to wake him. The floor creaks anyway because this cabin is apparently built to betray me. He shifts, grunts, but doesn’t wake up.
Good. Because I have a plan. A bad plan. Aromantic gesture by a woman who should not be allowed near heat or sharp objectsplan. I am going to make him breakfast.
This decision is based on optimism, love, and a shocking disregard for my own track record in kitchens.
I tiptoe into the small kitchen and survey my battlefield. Okay. We have eggs. Bread. Butter. A pan. How hard can this be?
The answer is very.
I start with eggs. Because that feels… basic. Universal. Surely I cannot mess up eggs. Right?
I crack one on the edge of the bowl and somehow manage to send half the shellintothe bowl and half the eggontothe counter.
“Okay,” I whisper. “We’re learning.”
I fish out shell pieces like I’m defusing a bomb and crack another one. This one goes better. Then another. Confidence grows. This is how hubris begins.
I turn on the stove. Oops, too high. I don’t realize this until the butter hits the pan and immediately goes from “pleasantly melting” to “aggressively sizzling like it has a personal vendetta.”
I panic and throw the eggs in. They fight back. There’s a sound. A smell. A splatter situation.
“Wow,” I mutter. “So this is happening.”
I grab a spatula and try to stir, but the eggs are doing that thing where they’re both liquid and somehow also stuck to the pan. I turn the heat down. Then up. Then down again. I may or may not say, “Don’t do this to me,” to a pan of eggs.
While that’s… cooking-ish, I decide to make toast. I put bread in the toaster and push the lever. Nothing happens. I push it again. Still nothing. I realize it’s not plugged in. I plug it in. I push the lever. The toaster immediately smells like it’s been holding a grudge since 1997.
There’s smoke. Ugh. Lots of smoke.
“NOPE,” I say, yanking the plug out.
The eggs are now… questionable. I stir harder. They stick more. I scrape. The pan makes a noise that feels judgmental.
I add salt.
Too much salt.
I add pepper.
Also too much pepper.
I consider adding cheese. Decide that’s a cry for help.
Somehow, in the chaos, I bump a cabinet and knock over a bag of flour that I did not know existed and absolutely did not invite into this situation.
It explodes. There is now flour on the counter. On the floor. On me. I stare at the white dust coating my shirt like I just lost a fight with a ghost. “This is fine,” I tell the empty room. “Everything is fine.” I turn back to the stove just in time to see a tiny flame flicker up at the edge of the pan.
“OH MY GOD.”