When I arrived in the kitchen, she was at the stove, cooking bacon.
“A BLT?” she asked, turning to me.
“One of my favorites. Did you glean that with your powerful psychology?”
“Of course!” she crowed. “I know everything about you.”
“I hope not everything. I like to keep some modicum of mystery about me.” I draped my jacket over one of the chairs. I’d rolled up my sleeves so I wouldn’t look too formal.
“Coffee’s ready, if you want some. Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” I went to the coffee maker where a cup and spoon were waiting for me.
“I didn’t know if you used cream or milk, but there’s some in the refrigerator.”
“No, just a little sugar.” I spooned some into my cup and stirred it. Then I sat at the kitchen table.
Seeing her doing household chores, like cooking, didn’t compute to me.
