Breakfast w/ Matt

Breakfast with a bearded relative, his face obscured by stringy, dense hair, in a kitchen that, the last time I was in, was brand new, 'redone' as they say, but now just looks worn in like the wallet pocket on a familiar pair of jeans.
I can't help but smile as this seemingly domesticated animal-of-a-man wanders around his housewife's space of spices, utensils, appliances, and other garnishes of utility. He lifts a massive loaf of bread out of a newly purchased bread maker (discounted! was once $100 but is now $70!) and we take pictures of it, as if the achievement is actually ours. as he raises a knife to slice the tanned island of dough amongst a sea of marble counter top, I can't help but think of the last supper and wonder, if bread was broken then, wouldn't it just have been easier to use a knife? I mean, the crumbs...

The strong punchy aroma of coffee stings my nose in a way that suggests personal rebirth and I make a list of positive changes in my mind that I assure myself this time I will stick to.

Drifting into an imagined realm of wedlock (not for the first time, either) as my newly taken wife with her beehive of frizz for hair, a stack of facial hair that nearly reaches past her belly button, and clothes so old that they nearly crumble at between the rub of two fingers, prepares the rest of my breakfast of rice and beans, eggs, butter and jam and I feel the sort of complacency that often comes with being truly, earnestly happy.

I look at my cousin, the one person who truly knows everything about me, and think about how he has the potential to make people feel more joyful than they've ever felt and I deeply contemplate whether the same is true of me.