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ROY KENT COULD NOT REMEMBER THE LAST TIME He spent the night at his own house, and so when he woke up to an empty bed this morning, he naturally assumed that his girlfriend, who was notorious for her love of familiar comforts, had left these semi-foreign dwellings without saying goodbye.
It was an odd conclusion to speedily come to, and it would've been just as odd if she did silently up and leave (given the fact that last night had euphorically ended with her climaxing four times, and that he was their ride to work today, and that Ada had this weird thing about always announcing her departure), but it was the only logical explanation – after all, he didn't hear the shower running, and couldn't recall a single instance where his girlfriend willingly set foot in the kitchen.
Until now, that is.
"Oi, what are you doing?" He wearily squinted, slowly leaning against the kitchen's open doorway as he watched her.
Ada was stood at the counter, her back to him as she chopped away on the cutting board. She had her foot pressed up against her inner thigh in tree pose, and was dressed in nought but his retired Richmond kit. The cobalt blue of the shirt complimented her tanned legs, and the white of the number six matched the pale cotton of her underwear.
"I'm making breakfast." The girl revealed, holding her shoulders incredibly still in the hope of presenting herself more confidently.
"Breakfast?"
(Ada acknowledged that incredulity was a fair enough response. It was quite known within their circle of people that she was not at all culinarily competent – she put too much milk in her cereal and didn't know how to work a stove. Growing up, meals had largely consisted of whatever her mother could quickly put together between shifts, whatever Skinhead Sid could sneak from his father's bakery, and, when times were truly desperate, then she would make the sandwich that an equally starved Jamie had once dubbed The Classic; salt and vinegar crisps crushed between two slices of white bread.
