I woke up to the smell of eggs frying in a pan. It wafted through the small, dimly lit bedroom and surrounded my head. Lifting one eyelid slowly, I felt around and noticed the other side of the bed empty. Cooking breakfast? I was surprised he’d stayed long enough to say good morning, or even good bye.
I didn’t normally wake up after nights at the club early enough to consider breakfast; let alone anything that wasn’t just coffee or some dry toast. I rolled over on my side and listened to the low hum of the radio in the dining room and the scrape of a spatula on the pan. Tomatoes had been added. Stewed tomatoes, ripe with juice and being cooked slowly in a pot. I could see them in my head, bubbling slightly and pairing perfectly with some toast; the eggs as a companion.
This kind of aroma filling the entire house was just enough to make me shed a tear. My mum used to make breakfasts like this. English breakfasts we’d call them. It was always a Sunday thing and it was something that brought the family together. No one in my family could deny a breakfast fit for a football team.
Rolling back to face the doorway to the room, I contemplated getting up, showering and brushing my teeth. It was the least I could do for the man making me breakfast…which was still something new to me. He stayed. I tried hard to remember his name…Phil? No…it did begin with a ‘p’ though. Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t hear the soft footfalls coming up the hall from the kitchen. A head peaked in through the cracked door and the bouquet of breakfast hit me hard and fast. Another tear leaked out.
“I didn’t know if you’d be awake yet. I cooked you breakfast…I figured it was a good thank you for last night. I had a good time, and I uh…well, I hope you did too.” His accent was thick…Irish? When did I meet an Irish man last night? Either way, each word melted through my head like butter on hot bread. It was a weakness of mine. That must have been why he’d ended up coming home with me. Flirtation will get you anything if you want it bad enough.
“Where did you get eggs from?” Nice one Ginny…that was as far from thank you as one could get. “I mean…thank you…I appreciate it…but where did you get eggs?”
“The market down the street. They had a nice organic selection,” he smiled slightly and winked at me. I felt my face flush and tried to pass it off with a yawn and a stretch.
He walked out of the room and I heard bacon hit the frying pan with a loud, succulent sizzle and he started singing to himself. He was attractive; I looked around the corner again to take him in before I hopped in the shower and washed away the makeup and hairspray. I needed to feel somewhat human for this man. A soft knock on the bathroom door snapped me out of my watery reverie.
“You almost done? I don’t want the food to go cold. I could join you and make it go faster if you’d like,” he chuckled to himself and shut the door, not even allowing me to deny or accept his invitation.
I turned off the hot water and wrapped a towel around my damp torso. Throwing my hair up in a towel I wiped the mirror to check my reflection. Still me, still slightly round faced, plump lips, and startling blue eyes. What was he staying for? I wasn’t anything special. I heard toast popping from the toaster and the exotic chef start whistling a drinking song.
I ventured out into the kitchen and smiled at the table laid out with foods from my past. The smell was clouding my head and tears were blurring my vision.
I didn’t normally wake up after nights at the club early enough to consider breakfast; let alone anything that wasn’t just coffee or some dry toast. I rolled over on my side and listened to the low hum of the radio in the dining room and the scrape of a spatula on the pan. Tomatoes had been added. Stewed tomatoes, ripe with juice and being cooked slowly in a pot. I could see them in my head, bubbling slightly and pairing perfectly with some toast; the eggs as a companion.
This kind of aroma filling the entire house was just enough to make me shed a tear. My mum used to make breakfasts like this. English breakfasts we’d call them. It was always a Sunday thing and it was something that brought the family together. No one in my family could deny a breakfast fit for a football team.
Rolling back to face the doorway to the room, I contemplated getting up, showering and brushing my teeth. It was the least I could do for the man making me breakfast…which was still something new to me. He stayed. I tried hard to remember his name…Phil? No…it did begin with a ‘p’ though. Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t hear the soft footfalls coming up the hall from the kitchen. A head peaked in through the cracked door and the bouquet of breakfast hit me hard and fast. Another tear leaked out.
“I didn’t know if you’d be awake yet. I cooked you breakfast…I figured it was a good thank you for last night. I had a good time, and I uh…well, I hope you did too.” His accent was thick…Irish? When did I meet an Irish man last night? Either way, each word melted through my head like butter on hot bread. It was a weakness of mine. That must have been why he’d ended up coming home with me. Flirtation will get you anything if you want it bad enough.
“Where did you get eggs from?” Nice one Ginny…that was as far from thank you as one could get. “I mean…thank you…I appreciate it…but where did you get eggs?”
“The market down the street. They had a nice organic selection,” he smiled slightly and winked at me. I felt my face flush and tried to pass it off with a yawn and a stretch.
He walked out of the room and I heard bacon hit the frying pan with a loud, succulent sizzle and he started singing to himself. He was attractive; I looked around the corner again to take him in before I hopped in the shower and washed away the makeup and hairspray. I needed to feel somewhat human for this man. A soft knock on the bathroom door snapped me out of my watery reverie.
“You almost done? I don’t want the food to go cold. I could join you and make it go faster if you’d like,” he chuckled to himself and shut the door, not even allowing me to deny or accept his invitation.
I turned off the hot water and wrapped a towel around my damp torso. Throwing my hair up in a towel I wiped the mirror to check my reflection. Still me, still slightly round faced, plump lips, and startling blue eyes. What was he staying for? I wasn’t anything special. I heard toast popping from the toaster and the exotic chef start whistling a drinking song.
I ventured out into the kitchen and smiled at the table laid out with foods from my past. The smell was clouding my head and tears were blurring my vision.
Aromatherapy: Describe a place by its smell, scent, odor, perfume, or stench. Don't let the olfactory sense overwhelm your description, but use this sense the way it occurs in our everyday experience - as an unconcious trigger of memory. The odor should contain a secret message for one of the characters in the scene. 500 words.
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