okay.

they are making an
omelette
at eight am
on a thursday morning.

the cutting of the peppers,
the thin slices of onion,
the crush of the garlic beneath
his knife,
the texture of the cheese
crumbling beneath his
still dull fingertips,
the crisp crack of the egg
against the side of the bowl--

each sensation greets him
like an old familiar friend.

as he scoops the
ingredients up to toss
them in the pan,
he steadies himself on the
edge of the counter with his
good hand

and breaths in slowly,
fighting his mind
for balance.

okay?
she asks,
her patient hands guiding,
steadying,
his bulky frame.

okay,
he says.
okay.