Page 35 of Living with Death
“Sorry,” he says, a smile playing on his lips.
I lean against the wall. “You never slept.”
“I don’t have to sleep, remember?”
“Oh, right.” I run a hand over my face, feeling foolish. I was disappointed he might not have returned for no reason.
He has coffee in his hand. “I made this for you.”
I smile. “You made coffee?”
“I’m a quick learner.”
I wrap my robe around me to cover my silk green camisole and shorts. I skipped the sweats this time.
I take the coffee from him, bringing it to my lips. “Thank you. It’s just how I like it.”
“Black, like my soul,” he says.
I frown. “I’d like to think your soul isn’t black.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Did you have a good night after you left here?” I ask as we both walk downstairs.
“It was eventful,” he says.
“I don’t think I want to know.”
“No, you probably don’t.” We walk down the hall into the kitchen, and I see he’s cleaned up the mess from last night’s baking soda explosion. “Thanks for cleaning.” I look at the black smut on the wall and ceiling. Yikes.
“What would you like to try for breakfast?”
He smiles. “Pancakes.”
I chuckle. “Pancakes it is.”
“How’s your head?” he asks, pulling out a chair at the small kitchen table. No one has sat there but my grandparents or me. Sometimes, I'd call them when it got too scary at my house. They’d tell me to get on my bike, and they would wait for me at the end of the street.
I’d sit at this table with tears streaming down my cheeks, worried for my mother. Grams would braid my hair while Grandpop went over to check on things. Of course, Mother told him everything was fine and that I needed to get back home. She was always worried about Grams feeding me too much.
I touch the back of my head. The doctor removed the bandage before I left the hospital. I have stitches that’ll dissolve on their own. “It’s sore but could be worse.”
He nods, seeming pleased with this answer. Azrael’s presence makes this kitchen appear duller than it is.
I grab the pancake mix and a bowl from the cabinet, flipping on the only burner that works now. The kitchen’s lit in the morning sun, and the flowers Sam brought sit in the window, soaking it up. My phone dings, and I walk over, seeing a text from my mom.
I’m coming over today and bringing those new nightgowns so you don’t look thrown away.
I roll my eyes, opening the fridge to grab the milk, eggs, and butter. Does the woman not think I know how to shop for myself? I close the fridge with my hip before pulling out a whisk from the drawer.
“After you eat these pancakes, what do you want to do?” I place everything onto the counter, nearly dropping the butter.
“You’re not having any?” he asks.
“No. I usually fast until after lunch.”
His brow furrows. “What’s the fun in trying new food if I don’t have anyone to eat it with?”
