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  • J. S. Chlapowski

I don't think we're strange

It was my turn to get bacon. I didn't forget. Saturdays are too sacred for that. Snorre is the first to get up, though. It's his turn to fry the bacon. I get up the second I hear noises coming from the kitchen. I don't like being in bed by myself. I like being with Snorre better.


I turn on music and clean plates from last night off the table. We had friends over for dinner, then drinks, then a few rounds of Catan. I'm usually more like the woman half on their side of the table. I don't think that makes me a woman, the kind of woman people mean when they ask which of us is the wife, but I wouldn't mind if it did.


They're not married like we are, but they act like they are, because they act like us. Maybe it's us that acts like them. Or maybe that's just how couples in love act. I don't think too much about it. We do what makes sense. We do what makes us happy.

The word is nice, though. "Marriage," is. I wonder if they'll come to enjoy it.


The bacon is almost ready. Snorre likes it a little more crispy than I do. I get the coffee ready as I like to sip it while we talk in the morning. We switch from Norwegian to English and back and I don't get as tired from it as I used to.


The bacon is done. Snorre throws a few eggs in the bacon grease, over-easy. They're just better that way. One of the yolks breaks and fries. Snorre puts the fried egg on a plate meant for himself and gives me the unbroken one. I switch plates before he notices and eat it before he can stop me.


It's a chilly morning. There's a blanket on the couch that looks especially warm after a nice breakfast. We allow ourselves fifteen minutes under it before starting our day. It will be a good one.

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