a love letter to perkins [lifestyle]

Perhaps I began loving you within the kitchen. I keep in mind one Sunday morning afternoon within the fall: I may odor one thing cooking, candy cinnamon, wafting down my hallway. I appeared inside to discover a group of my mates huddled across the range, French toast scorching within the pan and dinner jazz (“Glad Moods” by Ahmad Jamal) filling the light-drenched room. The odor drew increasingly more folks till the kitchen was stuffed with mates, mismatched dishes, borrowed cutlery, and merry chatter. All of us sat shoulder to shoulder across the too-small eating room desk, and when the final of the French toast was gone, we sat in lazy silence as the heat of our our bodies and the solar streaming by the window lulled us to sleep.

Or did I fall in love with you within the lavatory? Perhaps it was all these teary-eyed conversations confused by toothbrushes (“hey, you… did you sleep nicely?”). Or possibly it was the black Sharpie graffiti on the within of the lavatory stall (“I do not love you anymore”). Anybody who is aware of you’ll be able to relate to your so-called “imperfections”: the sinks that by no means leak greater than a drip, the bathe head that spits out little spurts of chilly water, or the deserted stone ring that has been sitting on the counter unclaimed. weeks.

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