Another man’s woman is making me breakfast. She says it’s the reverse-supper she needs to make for her night-shift husband anyway.
She’s telling me something else, some story I’m meant to follow, but I’m not really listening.
I needed last night as much as she did.
I don’t feel sorry or wrong, exactly. I feel empty.
Steam rises from the pan next to her. She turns to stir the eggs and I wish I’d left ten minutes ago.
Coffee? No, thank you.