He comes in every morning at a quarter to seven. Scrubs, smile, and something witty to say. He marches over to the display of warm breakfast food, and every morning he chooses the same thing: Oatmeal. A hearty glass dish full of the bland mush, topped generously with brown sugar and cinnamon.
And every morning at ten to seven I give him a terrible time for it, and tease him, and he looks at his feet, and back up at me, and smiles, and defends his breakfast.
“Here he comes with his thrilling breakfast,” I’ll say as he approaches. “What are you going to eat when you get older?”
“Oatmeal.”
“When you lose your teeth?”
“Oatmeal!”
Oatmeal has no speculation that I do, actually, adore him in a great, mushy way. The food really isn’t that bad, either.
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