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She wasn't fat, really. And really, what was fat? Nothing wrong with a girl loving food, and there was nothing wrong with a late night binge to soothe the soul. A strange thing, however, how a morsel of the same sustenance can taste so different in context. Nothing in the preparation had changed. In every way it should have been just as aesthetically pleasing. Subtle hints of salt wet her tongue all the same. Syrup and strawberries still soaked into the sweet tooth. Speckles of powdered sugar and a tuft of whipped cream still decorated the top of the french toast. She'd never tell a soul that it tasted better than her grandmother's ever had, but tonight, it broke her heart.
Only a couple bites in and her appetite waned. Ice cream in bed would have been a better choice. At least then she could have curled up right after the pint was gone, and pretend the duvet was warmer. But she had to go out for breakfast. At 2 AM.
There's a time for 2 AM breakfast. Its a time when you lean over the table to talk quieter in a mostly empty diner. When you order coffee for the sake of something hot in your belly, something to warm the butterflies and calm their flutters. When you blush because you're so certain that the graveyard waitstaff know. They know what you've done. They know how you've kissed. And you're certain they somehow know the hushed words said hours before breakfast had been decided. When a pillow was shared between two heads, and comparatively a booth and a table's distance were miles.
This was not the time for 2AM breakfast. The plastic table was tacky in the light, and stretched on for leagues. And the sweet of the sugar didn't satisfy. It was more bitter than the burnt decaf the waitress poured. And her heart was colder than that tired waitress's semblance of a smile.
She knew they knew, and when she blushed this time it held no secrets. It was the shame of a lonely 2AM breakfast, ducking her head as she asked for the check, a half-eaten platter of her favorite comfort food disregarded. The coffee had gone cold, the sugar and cream settled at the bottom. She looked back over her shoulder as she left, a quick glance, nothing so disgraceful as longing or sadness. Just tired, and wishing it would have tasted like it did before, wishing she didn't have to make-believe in the warmth of the bed to which she'd return.
Only a couple bites in and her appetite waned. Ice cream in bed would have been a better choice. At least then she could have curled up right after the pint was gone, and pretend the duvet was warmer. But she had to go out for breakfast. At 2 AM.
There's a time for 2 AM breakfast. Its a time when you lean over the table to talk quieter in a mostly empty diner. When you order coffee for the sake of something hot in your belly, something to warm the butterflies and calm their flutters. When you blush because you're so certain that the graveyard waitstaff know. They know what you've done. They know how you've kissed. And you're certain they somehow know the hushed words said hours before breakfast had been decided. When a pillow was shared between two heads, and comparatively a booth and a table's distance were miles.
This was not the time for 2AM breakfast. The plastic table was tacky in the light, and stretched on for leagues. And the sweet of the sugar didn't satisfy. It was more bitter than the burnt decaf the waitress poured. And her heart was colder than that tired waitress's semblance of a smile.
She knew they knew, and when she blushed this time it held no secrets. It was the shame of a lonely 2AM breakfast, ducking her head as she asked for the check, a half-eaten platter of her favorite comfort food disregarded. The coffee had gone cold, the sugar and cream settled at the bottom. She looked back over her shoulder as she left, a quick glance, nothing so disgraceful as longing or sadness. Just tired, and wishing it would have tasted like it did before, wishing she didn't have to make-believe in the warmth of the bed to which she'd return.