Confession

Artwork by Constance Lewis

I’m guilty.

I heard you were up, moving about in the bathroom.

But the linen of the sheets felt so accommodating as I squirmed a little to flex my toes. Stretching out; the bed all mine.

The early light of morning, streaming warm through the louvers, cast shafts of gold across the room. From Woy Woy Road the distant traffic droned in the morning rush, people urgently travelling somewhere else, while birds — squawk, peep, trill — loudly announced the day.

So I lay there, wiggling my toes and pretending I was asleep, dreaming pleasant dreams.

You padded down the carpeted stairs, Leah, our dog, wagging her tail all the way to the kitchen. I heard her joyous tumbling out the back door, onto the deck and into the garden. I could see her in my mind’s eye. She’d be making her way around the fence line now, her coat polished to a sheen by our frequent patting. She’d be checking for new smells or interlopers, before laying down on the bricks of the courtyard to soak up their warmth, waiting for her breakfast.

I heard you unpacking the dishwasher, putting clean dishes away, the cupboard doors closing with a quiet bang. The jangle of cutlery as it fell into the drawer leaving just enough for breakfast.

You were grinding the fresh coffee beans, and getting the cereal out from the pantry, then the milk, yoghurt and fruit. The napkins from the drawer: yours the blue check, mine the red. Coffee mugs on the tray.

Still I lay there, pretending.

I let you make the coffee. I can smell it now, so rich and dark and fragrant.

Am I guilty? Not really. It was delicious.

Guilty as charged.