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Sunday Morning
On Sunday mornings, Meg gets up early and goes to church. Her roommates don't.
This is hardly a problem; in fact, Meg quite likes her quiet Sunday mornings. She gets up, washes her face and brushes her teeth. Heads into the kitchen, still in bright pink flannel pajamas covered in purple hearts and an old orange sweater that used to be her father's. (She's had the pajamas since she was fourteen, and they're ridiculous and the color is awful but they're so very comfortable.)
She has an hour or so, most mornings, to sit and read and eat breakfast and--
"Hey, I don't want to startle you--"
Meg half-screams in response to the unexpected voice coming from the living room couch and drops the glass she was getting out of the cabinet.
"Shit. Sorry. I just . . . I couldn't think of any way to let you know I was there. Sorry."
Ed Marriner comes into the kitchen. He's unshaven, bleary-eyed, and still in the clothes he had on the night before, when he and Carrie had been working on their lit class project. "Here, let me help you with that," he says.
"Hold on," Meg says. "Maybe you could start by explaining why you're here."
"Well, we're working on this damn project."
"Right . . . "
"Right, and it's due Monday--tomorrow, shit, that's tomorrow. Anyway, it was four in the morning and we were both just too tired to even think any more, and it was four AM and it was too late, or early, or . . . Carrie said I should just crash on the couch and go home in the morning. So I did. And then I heard you, and I didn't know if you knew I was here, though I'm guessing not, and I wanted to make sure you did. So. Good morning. Hi. I'm here."
"Okay," Meg says. "Well, that makes sense, staying here if it was that late."
Four AM is not a good time be out and about in any city, really.
"So, I can help you with this now?" he asks, indicating the glass that's still in the floor.
"Only if you get your shoes first," Meg says. "And the dust pan is in that closet over there. Thanks."
It's really not that hard to sweep up broken glass, and the whole thing would be the work of moments, except . . .
"Ow. Dammit."
Meg resists the temptation to sigh. "Let me see," she says.
Ed waves her away with the hand that isn't bleeding. "It's nothing. I'm just being stupid."
"Yeah, you are," Meg agrees, pulling the first aid kit down from the cabinet next to the stove. "So stop being stupid and let me see your hand."
The cut's not bad, and certainly nothing that's going to require treatment beyond cleaning and bandaging.
"Thanks," Ed says, as she's putting the first aid kit away again.
"You're welcome."
"So I kind of hate to ask this," Ed says, "but is there any chance you're going to make coffee? I mean, not for me, just, you know, general morning coffee-making? And if you are going to make coffee, is there any chance you could make an extra cup? Or six?"
"I don't drink coffee," Meg says, "but--"
"No, don't worry about it," Ed says. "I'm fine. Forget I mentioned anything."
"Look, the coffee's in that cabinet, and Olivia's grandmother's ancient percolator is behind you. Help yourself. I'm going to go, um . . ." change into something other than five-year old pajamas ". . . I'll be right back."
"Thanks."
"Sure."
As Meg heads back to her room, there's the sound of some part of the coffee pot hitting the floor in the kitchen, promptly followed by muttered swearing.
This time, Meg does sigh, and lets herself into her room.
So much for her quiet Sunday morning.
This is hardly a problem; in fact, Meg quite likes her quiet Sunday mornings. She gets up, washes her face and brushes her teeth. Heads into the kitchen, still in bright pink flannel pajamas covered in purple hearts and an old orange sweater that used to be her father's. (She's had the pajamas since she was fourteen, and they're ridiculous and the color is awful but they're so very comfortable.)
She has an hour or so, most mornings, to sit and read and eat breakfast and--
"Hey, I don't want to startle you--"
Meg half-screams in response to the unexpected voice coming from the living room couch and drops the glass she was getting out of the cabinet.
"Shit. Sorry. I just . . . I couldn't think of any way to let you know I was there. Sorry."
Ed Marriner comes into the kitchen. He's unshaven, bleary-eyed, and still in the clothes he had on the night before, when he and Carrie had been working on their lit class project. "Here, let me help you with that," he says.
"Hold on," Meg says. "Maybe you could start by explaining why you're here."
"Well, we're working on this damn project."
"Right . . . "
"Right, and it's due Monday--tomorrow, shit, that's tomorrow. Anyway, it was four in the morning and we were both just too tired to even think any more, and it was four AM and it was too late, or early, or . . . Carrie said I should just crash on the couch and go home in the morning. So I did. And then I heard you, and I didn't know if you knew I was here, though I'm guessing not, and I wanted to make sure you did. So. Good morning. Hi. I'm here."
"Okay," Meg says. "Well, that makes sense, staying here if it was that late."
Four AM is not a good time be out and about in any city, really.
"So, I can help you with this now?" he asks, indicating the glass that's still in the floor.
"Only if you get your shoes first," Meg says. "And the dust pan is in that closet over there. Thanks."
It's really not that hard to sweep up broken glass, and the whole thing would be the work of moments, except . . .
"Ow. Dammit."
Meg resists the temptation to sigh. "Let me see," she says.
Ed waves her away with the hand that isn't bleeding. "It's nothing. I'm just being stupid."
"Yeah, you are," Meg agrees, pulling the first aid kit down from the cabinet next to the stove. "So stop being stupid and let me see your hand."
The cut's not bad, and certainly nothing that's going to require treatment beyond cleaning and bandaging.
"Thanks," Ed says, as she's putting the first aid kit away again.
"You're welcome."
"So I kind of hate to ask this," Ed says, "but is there any chance you're going to make coffee? I mean, not for me, just, you know, general morning coffee-making? And if you are going to make coffee, is there any chance you could make an extra cup? Or six?"
"I don't drink coffee," Meg says, "but--"
"No, don't worry about it," Ed says. "I'm fine. Forget I mentioned anything."
"Look, the coffee's in that cabinet, and Olivia's grandmother's ancient percolator is behind you. Help yourself. I'm going to go, um . . ." change into something other than five-year old pajamas ". . . I'll be right back."
"Thanks."
"Sure."
As Meg heads back to her room, there's the sound of some part of the coffee pot hitting the floor in the kitchen, promptly followed by muttered swearing.
This time, Meg does sigh, and lets herself into her room.
So much for her quiet Sunday morning.