The Hurt

Comfort Food

I woke up the next morning in an empty bed, assuming Sean was already up and moving. I took my time getting myself out of bed. When I was finally vertical, I realized I had to pee right then. I hurried to the bathroom down the hall, turning the handle, I realized it was locked. I knocked, “Sean, honey? Can you please let me in?” I said urgently.

He gave, what I assumed, was a muffled reply before I heard the click of the knob being unlocked. I burst in, seeing his wet body escape back behind the shower curtain.”Where’s the fire at?” He chuckled, peaking at me from the curtain.

“Sorry, sug, I had to pee like a race horse.”

“A pregnant one?” He smirked.

I chuckled at his comment, “I would suppose so.”

“Wanna join me in here when you’re done, baby? Water’s fine.” He playfully flicked some warm water at me.

“Sure, baby.” I let my hair down, took off my sleepshirt, and put it in the hamper.

He whistled at me, “Mm, you lookin’ fine, momma! You sure I knocked you up? You look as tight as the day I met you, baby.”

“You seem to be in a mood this morning,” I eyed him as I got in with him. His water-slick body was something to behold; the way his arm muscles rippled when he rubbed the water on himself was tantalizing.

He must have been thinking something similar, as he pressed me close to him, his lips making contact with mine, “You got me in a mood, baby,” he whispered between kisses. He started lathering my body and massaging me, being gentle in doing so in a way that relaxed my tense body.

When we were done, I wrapped my hair in a towel and put a robe on after I handed Sean a towel of his own. “You hungry? Can I make you breakfast?”

He was only wearing a towel around his waist, his large, muscular arms glistening with moisture, and beads of water rolling down his body over his stomach. He had a little bit of a gut, but wasn’t overweight by half. He blamed it on beer, but I know he has a thirst for sweet tea that cannot be satisfied. He walked behind me as I was facing the sink, putting his large hands on my waist and burying his face in my neck, “You’re so sweet,” he whispered, kissing my neck lightly a few times.

I laughed, his stubble scratching my neck and tickling me, “Sean, stop!” I laughed, playfully pushing his face away, “That tickles! You gonna clean up that scruff of yours, or what?” I stood on my toes to kiss his stubbled cheek.

He took a hand and rubbed his face, giving me a sideways smile, “I guess Imma have to, huh?” He winked at me. “Why don’t you go on an’ get started in the kitchen, and I’ll finish up in here.” He smacked me on the backside before reaching into the medicine cabinet to get his razor and face cream.

I laughed, jumping at his playful smack, as I walked out the door, “Flapjacks okay?” I asked, poking my head back in the bathroom.

“Mm hm,” he hummed, his face covered with shaving cream, trying to shave his upper lip.

“Take your sweet time, Sugar,” I told him, once again leaving the bathroom.

I started making the buttermilk pancakes my Grammy used to make me when I was a young’un, I knew it by heart, and it was one of my favorite foods she’d make for me when I came to visit. I started making the buttermilk. I didn’t have any, but I just set aside two and a half cups of milk, added two and a half tablespoons of lemon juice, gave it a stir, and let it sit until I had the dry ingredients together. I sifted two cups of flour, the teaspoon of baking powder, and half a teaspoon of baking soda into a bowl. My hand was sore after the sifting, so I stretched it out before adding the two tablespoons of sugar and just a pinch of salt to the bowl with the sifted ingredients. I then added the buttermilk, two eggs, and one tablespoon of oil to the dry ingredients before mixing with a whisk. I put a griddle on the stove, and after it was warm, I put a little butter to melt onto it before pouring some of the batter onto it. The cool batter gave a low, satisfying sizzle as it spread across the griddle before settling into an uneven circle to cook. I took another pan and did the same with butter, and cracked a couple of eggs into it.

Hearing his steps approach, Sean came into the kitchen, pulling down his shirt over his stomach as he walked towards me, leaned down, and kissed my cheek, “Better?” He asked.

I put my hands on his face and kissed his lips, “Much, thank you,” I rubbed his cheeks with my thumbs as I kissed him. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Like ‘em fried, nothin’ special,” he smiled, looking at me tenderly, running his fingers through my damp hair before holding the back of my neck.

I tensed up a bit with his hand on the back of my neck; it made me nervous, but I didn’t want him to know it. He knew I was abused in the past, and didn’t try to trigger me, but sometimes it was little things like this that made me subconsciously want to push him away and scream to protect myself from someone I knew would protect me. I cleared my throat, “You got it, mister.” I broke eye contact with him and turned my attention back to what I was making. The flapjacks were a nice golden brown, and the eggs were sizzling and popping in the pan next to them. I caught a whiff of something off, “Hun, do you smell that?” I asked, sniffing the air.

Sean inhaled through his nose, “I dunno, what you smellin’?”

“It just smells kind of rotten, or musty…kinda both?” I kept sniffing, wanting to figure out what it was.

Sean lifted his arm and smelled his underarm, “It ain’t me, is it?”

I rolled my eyes and laughed, “No, honey, it’s not you. Couldn’t be,” I patted his arm and sniffed what I was cooking. The pancakes smelled fine; the buttermilk couldn’t have curdled in such a way that it would smell like what I was smelling. I took a smell of the eggs and recoiled, “Ugh, the eggs,” I wrinkled my nose.

Sean smelled them, “They smell fine to me,” he shrugged.

I sniffed again, my stomach turning, “Really? They don’t smell like…” I was cut off by my running to the bathroom to stick my head in the toilet and retch. I hadn’t eaten yet, and there was nothing for me to throw up.

Sean had come in after me and was holding my hair for me, rubbing my back while my body tensed, trying to throw up nothing. My eyes were watering, and my nose was stinging. I was whimpering a little from feeling sick. When I thought I was done, I slumped against the cool porcelain and groaned, wiping my eyes with my sleeve. Sean had gotten a washcloth, ran it under cold water, laid me back against the wall, and put the cloth on my forehead. “Huh, baby don’t like eggs, I guess.”

I gave a weak laugh, “Guess not,” I replied, my voice a bit hoarse from throwing up nothing but bile.

“Stay here, I’ll finish breakfast, a’ite?” He stood up and left the bathroom before I could protest and insist I could do it when I knew I was too weak to even stand right now.

After a few minutes, I started to feel better and stood up to go back into the kitchen. I ran the washcloth under some warm water and washed my face; the warm cloth was relaxing on my face. I went back into the kitchen. It still smelled a little pungent, but I no longer had the desire to throw up. I wrinkled my nose at the smell. “Whatcha doin’?” I asked Sean, walking up next to him by the stove.

He was turning over a couple of pancakes with the spatula while eating a pancake himself, “Jus’ finishin’ breakfast,” he replied, his mouth full.

“You gonna share, mister?” I scoffed playfully, snatching the pancake from his hand and taking a large bite for myself. Being that it was the first thing I had eaten in almost 24 hours, it tasted so sweet and comforting.

He furrowed his brow and clicked his tongue, “Hey! Go sit down now, hear? I ate them eggs so they wouldn’t keep stinkin’ up the place. Now let me finish up, an’ take it easy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I retorted, sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for him to be done, watching him move all the while. He was wearing a pair of sweatpants that hugged his features in all the right places, and made his backside and thighs enjoyable to look at; more so than usual, anyhow.

He caught me looking at him, but I didn’t try to hide that I was. He smirked, “Caught you takin’ a peek, didn’t I?” I wasn’t sorry, not one bit. I just smiled. “Take a gander at these cakes instead,” He said, placing a plate of flapjacks in front of me.

The smell was wonderful, the pancakes he had made were a little darker than mine, but not burnt, and the pat of butter on top was melting effortlessly on the top of the stack. My mouth watered as I was looking down at them, and I wasted no time grabbing a fork and digging in. “Mm, you did good, Sugar,” I praised him between bites.

He sat across from me, and a plate of his own food seemed half-eaten already. We sat in silence and just ate, trying to avoid talking about the problems we were going to have to face with being sick and pregnant. I don’t think either one of us knew how to bring it up at the time, my being sick this morning reminding us of what was ahead of us. Sean was the first to bring up the conversation. He was done eating and cleared his throat before speaking, “So, we have some things to talk ‘bout,” he wasn’t making eye contact or looking at me.