Knockin' Boots

Mason

When I got up on Tuesday morning, it was to the sound of dishes clattering in the kitchen. I threw my blankets off, pulled on a pair of loose sweats, and padded downstairs to the living room. Rick had crashed on my couch the last couple of nights since getting out of the hospital, so it was covered in blankets and several pillows. The bed in my guest room wasn’t comfortable for him because the mattress was too soft, and with his aching back and kinked neck, he favored the couch.

I found him in the kitchen putting two pieces of bread in the toaster. He glanced up when I opened the fridge and helped myself to a glass of orange juice.

“Morning,” he said. His voice was more nasally than usual due to the broken nose.

“Morning. How are you feeling this morning?”

He shrugged one shoulder and peered down into the toaster. He’d always been impatient when it came to his food in the morning. As young kids, we would fight to get to the toaster