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

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He had taken off into the bathroom the moment he realized he was crying. After we had sat there on my bed sharing that last moment, John had bolted suddenly, mumbling "I'll be right back, y/n", as if he didn't want me to see him cry. My mouth felt dry; I still had no idea what to say, other than "I'm sorry."

Vulnerability.

I was confused. I sat there with my arms by my sides, and then I realized my mother wasn't there, she was out of town for four days. It was like fate had planned this for me.

John was so strange. If this kind of thing had happened with Paul, I had imagined he would saunter in all suave and make me breakfast or something. But of course, I thought to myself, how would you like it if you were plucked out of history and brought to 2090? How would you feel then?

I got dressed, pulling on a pair of denim shorts and a brown sweater and tying my hair with an elastic. I walked over to the bathroom and tapped on the door.

"Y/n?" John asked quietly from inside. "I'll be out in a minute," he continued, his voice getting clearer as he spoke.

"I just wanted to ask if you wanted breakfast," I said through the keyhole. "How about eggs? I make a mean scrambled egg." I paused. "Are you all right?"

"Eggs sound fine," came a muffled voice. I gave up on the latter question and I went downstairs, turned the fire on, and took out four eggs. While I was putting toast inside the toaster, I heard John from behind me, his confidence seemingly back. He combed his hair, I noticed, as he leaned against the staircase. He was also holding a Rubix cube.

"Quit touching my things," I complained. I put the spatula down and went to retrieve it. When he held it out, though, I saw that all the colors were completed.

"You... uh... did you do that?" I asked. The spatula fell out of my right hand. I turned the cube over, amazed.

"Is that how it's supposed to be done?" he asked, smirking slightly.

"Yep. Wow," I said, impressed. The Rubix cube had appeared sometime in the '70s, which meant he had never seen one before. "You smartass."

"Language!" John grinned. I smacked him with the spatula. "Come help me cook."

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

"In 2013 they do. Look at Gordon Ramsay."

"Who?"

I flipped on the TV and took a glance at the channel guide. Sure enough, there was a Gordon Ramsay special on.

"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 television is so huge..."

I garnished the eggs with scallions, put the whole thing on toast, and poured some orange juice into two glasses while I thought about the present situation. Fact: John seemed to be pulled out of history. My Beatles things were gone. Without him, the Beatles would never have existed, and that was a real blow to the world.

Simple. I would need to put him back. However that may be.

I walked over to the elevated countertop where mum and I ate our meals and put down our breakfast. "John," I yelled, "Breakfast is served."

He left the TV on and joined me. I slid into the seat next to him. John wolfed down half of his plate before I could even give my breakfast a taste test.

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