Collaborative
“You don’t have to lick the bowl, Jericho,” Channing laughs. “I made plenty.” He rises from his place beside me at the kitchen table, abandoning his own food which never happens, and gets the cast iron skillet out of the oven where he’s kept it warm. Having established both his physical dominance and reinforced his psychological dominance, he’s in a much better mood than he was when I limped in here this morning, battered and bruised and still kind of liking it. He’s also feeling magnanimous. Thus far, he’s gotten me some ibuprofen for my aching body as he promised, he’s made certain my coffee mug was full, and now he’s fixed a breakfast that’s absolutely delicious. “What is this anyway?” I ask as he dumps another serving on my plate with a spatula. “Because if you didn’t know, it’s
- Writer
