Breakfast

The smell of breakfast spread gently over his face, like a soft familiar blanket, the kind of blanket that gripped tight in your hand led you through childhood.  He breathed in deep to better taste the air, to remember.

The mouthwatering unami of sausage, that circular brown puck of heaven, equal parts juicy and sizzling.  The deep meaty smell of potatoes in the hash browns, oily in its seductive appeal.  To the sides, waiting, heavy-lidded were the cinnamon and sugar from the cinnamon rolls, saying, Hey buddy you want this, huh?  Lost somewhere in there was a tang, a bright ray of light, the orange juice.

He breathed in and smelled everything again.  The kitchen was directly in front of him, and various items were left on the counter, in the sink, and on the table.  Spilled orange juice and a few grains of kosher salt nestled against a small plate that still had a sheen of grease from the food, with a fork laid jauntily against the side.  He also noticed a few crumbs left on one of the plates, and smiled to himself.

Two plates, two forks, and two seats.  He slowly cleaned the kitchen, pausing momentarily over the plates, almost caressing them as he placed them in the sink.  He walked to the table again, and picked up a bottle cap—Nantucket Nectars, and read under the cap: “Nantucket’s Brant Point is the second oldest lighthouse in the U.S., built in 1746.”

There was nothing else to do now, he thought.  The kitchen is clean, she has left, and the food has been eaten.  All that’s left now is the smell.