When I woke up Friday morning in Christian’s Manhattan apartment I smiled and then closed my eyes again. I rolled around on the futon where I’d slept and fought the urge to start giggling. I was thousands of miles away from college and all of my homework and responsibilities and I had an entire unscheduled day ahead of me.
I heard the shower going and Christian singing an old Broadway show tune over the sound of rushing water. I got out of bed and folded up the futon. A few minutes later Christian emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.
“Morning baby,” Christian said. “Why don’t you hit the shower and then we’ll go grab some breakfast?”
“Okay,” I said. “But you know, I’d be fine if we ate breakfast here. We don’t have to go out just because I’m here or anything.”
Christian laughed. “Follow me for a minute,” he said, walking toward the kitchen and motioning for me to follow. He stopped in front of the refrigerator, his chest still beaded with moisture from the shower, and grabbed the handle. “Take a peek in here,” he said, opening the door.
I looked inside and squinted. The bulb was burned out, but I could see that the fridge contained two bottles of Pellegrino water, half of a red cabbage, and a jar of Miracle Whip.
“New Yorkers don’t use their fridges,” Christian said with a grin. “We eat out.”
I grinned and eyed the contents of the fridge. “Okay then,” I said. “Let’s go out for breakfast.”
It was the beginning of a day that would end in a way I would never have imagined.
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