I got up early and bought us huge blueberry muffins from a place that serves them with clotted cream to dip them in. He shows me the bagel and I show him the muffins and the cream and we marvel at ourselves. I think that is part of love too. Basking in the wonder of how great you are for each other. “You are the sweetest,” I say. “But you are also the sweetest,” he says. “So we’re going to have to eat it all, right?” I say. “I see no other option.” He takes a bite of bagel right there on the stoop, followed by a bite of muffin. “Clotted cream,” he says. “Who knew?” Being near Bernardo and eating clotted cream feels good, but nothing else does. I can’t even look in the mirror. Errant marks fly up in front of my image, zaps like the kind that happen when you rub your eyes too hard or first try to adjust to the light after an evening of dark. “You still hurting from the other night?” he asks. I am still hurting, but not from a hangover. “Are you ready for today?”
