day 1: dave makes breakfast
day 2: rose makes breakfast and sets the table
day 3: dave makes breakfast sets the table and includes little placards on each end with their respective names in a nice font
day 4: rose makes breakfast sets the table and includes little placards on each end with their respective names in a nice font and shutters the windows and lights long, tapered altar candles for mood lighting (even though it is, remember, breakfast)
day 6: dave makes breakfast sets the table and includes little placards on each end with their respective names in a nice font and shutters the windows and lights long, tapered altar candles for mood lighting and has filched, from somewhere, a pair of tigers, collared in gold and lounging amidst their feet as they partake in berry berry kix for the 6th day in a row
day 7: rose makes breakfast sets the table and includes little placards on each end with their respective names in a nice font and shutters the windows and lights long, tapered altar candles for mood lighting and has filched, from somewhere, a pair of tigers, collared in gold and lounging amidst their feet as they partake in berry berry kix for the 7th day in a row, and has replaced their chairs with thrones immaculate, hers a deep, dark ebon wood, wild and overgrown while his is a magnificently wrought copper, a thousand layers of filigree woven into each other until it is impossible to tell where one strand ends and the other begins
day 8: dave makes breakfast sets the table and includes little placards on each end with their respective names in a nice font and shutters the windows and lights long, tapered altar candles for mood lighting and has filched, from somewhere, a pair of tigers, collared in gold and lounging amidst their feet as they partake in berry berry kix for the 8th day in a row, and has replaced their chairs with thrones immaculate, hers a deep, dark ebon wood, wild and overgrown while his is a magnificently wrought copper, a thousand layers of filigree woven into each other until it is impossible to tell where one strand ends and the other begins, and when rose begins to so delicately raise a spoon of cereal to her lips he knocks his own bowl aside and stands with dramatic flourish, tears in his eyes, and relays a poem in an ancient language, as dead as the poppies withered in the vase between them, artfully navigating the unfamiliar twists of syllables in a self-set rhythym, describing her beauty, her grace, like aphrodite, like athena, both born from the head, his voice risen in cresendo for the final line, before he pauses for a breathless moment, and returns to his seat. rose takes a bite.
day 9: “theres no more kix.”
she shrugs, rolls over, and goes back to sleep.
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