What's for Breakfast?

One: On My Bed

The kitchen walls are painted marble gray, with wood countertops and three bar stools separating the kitchen from the dining area. Black and white curtains hang on top of the windows, and a wine rack filled with bottles of red wine and champagne was placed in the corner. A sink sits atop the neatly arranged wooden cupboards, housing utensils and dry goods, with a condiments rack hanging nearby, accompanied by a mounted pot rack.

Moving to the dining room, painted in serene ivory white, a wooden dining set for four is in the center. A white ceramic vase with sunflowers graces the table. I replace the flowers every week because I insist on keeping fresh ones. Next, the utility room where we do laundry is just behind the kitchen.

From the dining area, it will take merely seven steps to reach the living room, adorned with a silvery, sectional sofa adorned with beige throw pillows, perfectly complementing the 48" flat-screen TV. The living room walls are ivory white as well, and a gray carpet covers the entire floor. We have another wooden, square center table with a vase on top. Again, I put in fresh sunflowers to bring in a touch of nature indoors. Patrick's DVD collection is near the TV, while another wooden bookshelf is next to the enormous glass windows. When daylight streams in, the brown curtains gracefully cascade from ceiling to floor, casting a warm and cozy ambiance.

Our bedrooms are conveniently located opposite each other, while the only bathroom is between our bedrooms. A family picture from 16 years ago (Mom, Dad, Patrick, and I) hangs next to the bathroom door.

Heaving another sigh out of frustration, I sit on the couch and stare at the space in defeat. Patrick's not here, and thank God he isn't. Who knows what he'll say to get on my nerves again?

He is two years older than me, and yes, we are close, but his constant desire to mock me for my failed dates surpasses the sisterly love he has for me.

I kick my shoes off my feet, and they hit the center table, making another crisp click sound. My phone finally stops ringing. In an attempt to distract myself, I power on the television, idly flicking through channels. The sound it emits is vibrant to my ears; my mind, however, is flying elsewhere.

"Where did I go wrong?" I whisper to myself in angst.

I feel so small and stupid and hopeless. I have no idea why my blind dates always end up leaving after dinner. The moment they request the bill without asking for my phone number, I realize that it's over. No second date.

My phone rings. Again. I fumble through my purse and see that it is Cathy—my matchmaker and one of my very few friends. She won't stop calling. I wince. She'll definitely chew me out again and then I'll go on explaining that I don't know what I did wrong because honestly, I really don't. As I've said, I have no idea!

The moment the phone lands on my ear, Cathy is already yelling, "What the hell happened again, Sam?"

She is disappointed in me. Hah. Good for her because I don't even know what to feel about myself.

"This is the fifth blind date I set up for you. What again?"

"Same thing," I reply, voice barely audible. My self-esteem is already beaten into a pulp. After all, it is already my fifth blind date. How long has it been since I started doing this? A year? Ugh. I've lost count.

I hear Cathy sigh wearily across the line. "He called me. He said you were too good for him. You're successful and too nice plus, you deserve a more suitable man—"

"And he isn't the one?" I hiss. These are the same reasons I've been hearing all my life. Back then, I thought these recycled excuses were compliments. After listening to them a million times, however, it has started to make me feel insulted. I am 'too good' because I have a stable career? Because I can financially support myself? What do they mean by that? How can I be 'too nice' when they do not even want a second date?