And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 3: Today's Breakfast Menu: Eggs, Toast, and a Sense of Reality

"John?" I called as I walked downstairs. I found him in the kitchen, his back against the sink, a piece of china in his hands from the cabinet.

"What's this?" He asked, holding up the china. "It's a tiny teapot. Too small for serving tea. My aunt has a ridiculous amount of teacups but I've never seen any so tiny."

"Mim—mum, That's my mum's," I told him, biting my tongue at my mistake. I almost reached out to take the tiny object from him but didn't. He looked so fascinated by the tiny designs on the china. "She collects bits of useless items like that."

"She's not around, is she, Cora?"

"She's not—hey!" I rolled my eyes at his suggestive tone, but I wasn't about to let him relish in it. "C'mon, breakfast. Eggs? Eggs and toast and tea?"

He nodded and I opened the fridge, taking out four eggs, and turned the stove on. I multitasked, putting the kettle on, using my hip to close the utensil drawer. I noticed John's eyes watching my movements and I said, "What, never seen anyone make brekkie before?"

"Dear Cora, please enlighten me," he said, bowing low to the ground. "What is this brekkie you speak of?"

"Naff off," I laughed, pouring the tea into two cups. "Sugar, milk?"

"Bird's got more of a sense of humor than I thought she did." He took both. We sat. He ate like he hadn't eaten in days, wolfing down his toast and eggs, scalding his mouth on the tea, earning a judgemental glance from me. "What are you looking at?"

"You," I told him.

"Is it because I'm so pretty?" He batted his eyelashes at me and I said, "Watch the ego, I've got a hot cuppa here. Besides," I said, and before I could stop myself, "Isn't Paul supposed to be the pretty one?"

His reaction was spectacular—he stopped chewing and gazed at me with widened eyes, unable to say anything, and then after a while, "You know Macca?"

Despite my mistake, I was pleased with the shock value it had produced. "S'pose you could say that."

"How? Only way is, well, either he's yer great great grandfather or some such or... hmm, perhaps our little band got famous."

Now it was my turn to react, or try and hide my reaction. I could not let him know of this, my senses told me. I cannot let him know too much about the future. It might set everything off. And suddenly I was worried about the trolley outside and the One Direction music on the radio and even the bathtub built into the wall.

"Something bothering you?" John asked. I realized I had gotten up, retrieved a pack of biscuits, and left them in front of him. "No." I changed the topic. "Tomorrow you're cooking breakfast."

"Men don't cook," he shot back.

"Well, this is the future, Mr. Lungs. Take a look." I grabbed his hand and led him into the living room where I took the remote and snapped on the television (he couldn't avoid it forever), attempting to find a cooking channel with a particular man, and I was in luck. "In 2013 they do. Look at Gordon Ramsay."

"Is he that bloke, that one doing—ah."

We watched for a while.

"He doesn't cook," John remarked in a sense of fascination. "He yells."

"He does both," I reminded him, and walked back to the kitchen. I heard him whisper, "This bloody telly is so huge..."

The very first silence appeared, creeping its way into the kitchen where we both stood in. It was unfamiliar; either me or John's wit had kept the conversation flowing. At that moment I found myself either staring at the ground or staring at him, taking in his face, a face so unique it couldn't have been anyone else's.