“You’re up.”
The cornflakes crackle audibly in my mouth. The milk blends between their fragments, swirling on my tongue.
“Yeah, I came down about fifteen minutes ago.” I have no recollection of what’s occupied that time. My face forms a grin, and I’m soothed by the familiarity of the motion.
He leaves to circle the buffet, warily eyeing the three freshly-squeezed juice options lined up next to the plates, their coloring nonspecifically tropical.
I look at the road we came in on three days ago, its jolted puffs of dust settling in the soles of my shoes, their granularity drowned out in the lush green pouring off every surface of the mountainside. The color is hyperreal. I stifle the urge to swipe up on the sheet glass to lower the brightness.
The cook at the omelet station fixes his gaze on a flock of clouds, grazing unhurriedly on the vast patch of sky. Searing swathes of yellow form atop the oil. Hills of green pepper and onion break out onto the surface, and a strike of blue flame tenuously dances. He seems to have already envisioned their textures. I wait for a partridge to pummel against the glass, or, just as likely, seamlessly continue its flight out of the opposite window. I remember to bring another spoonful of cornflakes to my mouth. They taste as good as the first time.
He places the plate with his omelet across from me and sits down, lifting the chair slightly as he scoots in. He tells me her flight came in an hour ago. She hasn’t texted him anything. Steam purrs from the eggs as if trying to draw my attention to something important.
“Do you know if she was on the plane or...?”
“Airlines don’t reveal their passenger lists.”
“How long till she gets here?”
“If we do see her, it’ll be in about two hours.”
“So we’re just gonna...”
“We’re just going to hang out.”
His intonation picks up at the last two words, both of them still acquainting themselves with the higher pitch. I help myself to more cornflakes. I realize that I’m waiting for them to taste different.