In my kitchen —

My favorite part of the day comes right after rubbing my eyes awake and before slipping on a sweater and gathering my things to start the day.

And it's 8:30 a.m. and the sun has just begun to peek past the parking lot and into the kitchen window, warming my hands and the expanse across my feet and and all the way up my legs, as they tingle with aliveness — a window of alertness that seems to escape me for the rest of the day.

 

I like drinking my coffee alone in the morning in my kitchen because I like the act of being alone — I like the solitary act of waiting for the day to begin.

The pot bubbles up and down creating a wash of impatient sound across the tile floors as my egg bounces up and down inside it.

I pour the water out into the sink, submerging my egg in cold water before taking it carefully and peeling it right over the counter, balanced cautiously on one foot, sprinkling a few flakes over the smooth white surface.

I eat breakfast alone, and always standing, and usually in my underwear, like a victorious warrior on the brink of the day.