Angle
Cynthia Yatchman is a Seattle based artist and art instructor. A former ceramicist, she received her B.F.A. in painting (UW). She switched from 3D to 2D and has remained there ever since. She works primarily on paintings, prints and collages. Her art is housed in numerous public and private collections. She has exhibited on both coasts, extensively in the Northwest, including shows at Seattle University, SPU, Shoreline Community College, the Tacoma and Seattle Convention Centers and the Pacific Science Center. She is, a member of the Seattle Print Art Association and COCA
Breakfast
by Leah Mockridge
I was still naked when I asked him, “Do you want to get breakfast tomorrow?” I don’t know why I asked it; I hadn’t intended to see him past that night, and I’d never even really liked breakfast. In fact, it was the meal I typically did my best to avoid. Growing up, I felt too sick from waking up at 5:30am for school every day to be able to choke anything down. In college, I couldn’t be bothered to get up more than seven minutes before my 9:00am lecture, let alone attempt to do something as responsible as making a meal. As an adult, I resented breakfast. All of the things I wanted to eat: waffles, Cocoa-Pebbles, and banana oatmeal, were shitty for me. I wouldn’t mind eating in a more health-conscious way, but the thought of waking up every day and eating the same meal of two eggs and wheat toast, and then washing the same four dishes required to make them, makes adulthood feel even more like an endless, monotonous march into oblivion. But, from that moment in my dark room, when he replied, “I was just about to ask you the same thing,” I began looking forward to breakfast.
The very first time I met Hunter, or rather the morningafterI met him, we went on our unplanned first date. I had gotten up early that morning and canceled all of my work meetings for the day, which, as a type A person, felt a little like setting myself on fire. Maybe it was just the leftover dopamine from the night before, but I didn’t care about work that day. From the moment I had opened my eyes that morning and saw him still sleeping next to me, I was filled with a sense of urgency and the thought that I wasn’t okay with only knowing him for a single night, even if it meant making a date out of my least favorite meal.
It was only a few hours later, while we were sitting at a small corner table at Mr. B’s Pancake House, joking about how insane of a choice it was for me to have picked ‘Morbius’ for a first date movie, that I realized how wrong I had been about breakfast. It was suddenly the first thing I thought of in the morning. I was hooked on the smell of his coffee: black, no cream or sugar. I relished the sleepy conversation and his slightly messy hair. For the first time, I saw the comfort of the constancy that breakfast could offer. I saw the value of waking up to the smell of coffee and popping in toast for two. From that very first morning together, breakfast became our ‘thing’. I had no idea that from that moment on, he would be the person I’d want to spend the rest of my breakfasts with.
Our breakfasts always came with a heaping side of epiphanies for me. I realized at the first breakfast that I didn’t want him to just be a one-night stand. At the second one, after stumbling into a small diner in downtown Grand Rapids, I realized I didn’t want things to just be casual. And later, while sharing the best biscuits and gravy I’ve ever had at a tiny little restaurant in the furthest corner of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, I realized I loved him.
It’s strange that such a small moment, a single breakfast, out of twenty-three years’ worth of breakfasts, could mean so much. I can still remember what we ordered: me, pancakes with an a la carte egg and him, corned beef hash with eggs and toast. It was that Saturday in early October that I knew I wouldn’t be okay with this being casual. After spending part of the morning googling “breakfast near me,” we ended up at The Westsider Cafe, a classic, small, slightly dirty breakfast joint. The type that survives only by the patronage of true locals who had been going there since they were kids. It wasn’t fancy with its makeshift open-air layout and the faint scent of fryer grease that thickened the air. As you step in, you‘re greeted by a half wall to the left that shows the entire kitchen. On top of the half wall is a small counter lined with all the ready orders. Straight ahead, a pregnant teenager with a lip piercing waits at the tiny hostess stand. We were standing in the tiny entryway, with a seating area that barely fit two beaten-up chairs jammed all the way together. Despite the strange layout and lack of space, the diner lobby was packed. We were elbow to elbow with about twenty other strangers all waiting their turn to slip into their regular booth, where the soft leather had been perfectly molded to their ass over the years.
Waitresses zipped past us, having to cut through the crowd to reach the half wall of orders to our left. Hunter and I stood staring into the open kitchen above the half-wall. There were no secrets here. While some may have found it alarming that the chef was covered in cheap street shop tattoos, ripping a strawberry vape while cooking some scrambled eggs, Hunter and I both agreed that’s how we knew it was going to be good. The same way you know a Chinese restaurant is going to be good when a small Asian child is the one taking your order and translating it to their family in the back, or the way you know a Mexican place is going to be good when all your servers speak more Spanish than English. The sure signs for good American food were generally if the cooks looked like they’d been to jail a couple times and drove a really beat-up Honda Civic then you were probably in good hands.
The energy in the lobby was so peaceful despite the cramped conditions. People waited patiently, whispering into their loved one’s ears, smiling as their hands brushed against strangers without complaint. This extended to the patrons who had already been seated. No one commented to the waitress about how long they’d been waiting, or demanded faster service, which admittedly, was pretty slow. It was nice to be surrounded by people talking over their coffees and laughing while their breakfasts got cold. And there we were, in the middle of it all, only a weekend or two after meeting for the very first time. The overwhelming symphony of human noise that swelled into every crack in the building made it hard to carry a conversation. Our eyes kept meeting, and I kept darting mine away, unsure of what to say. His eyes were somewhere between green and blue in the most beautiful way and looking at them for too long made my palms sweat and my heart plummet into my intestines. Because of this, or perhaps because of my own awkwardness at standing in a strange place, with a strange man that I’d only just met, we didn’t speak much while we waited. Thoughts gnawed at me. What did I even really know about him, other than he was a newspaper journalist that could make me cum? Both of which remain two of my favorite things about him. As I sometimes do, I had retreated into myself, silently trying to figure the situation out. It wasn’t until I heard him humming along to whatever song was quietly buzzing through the old cheap radio, that I was able to pull myself out of my own head.
“What are you humming?” I asked after silently building the nerve.
He smiled and replied, “It’s that Steve Lacy song that’s always on. I forgot the name of it.”
“Is it bad I don’t know who Steve Lacy is?” I asked, sheepishly.
His eyes got big as he responded, “What! We have to listen to it on the drive back.”
Before I could say anything else, the hostess called our names.
Finally seated, we quickly scanned the menus before getting caught up in conversation. He was so easy to talk to, no matter the topic. We talked (a lot) about the Halo video game series, dogs, movies we watched, books we’d read; we even talked about the other patrons by playing a guessing game where we would imagine their backstory. I subtly pointed to a young couple nearby, and asked, “First date or long-term relationship?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Definitely a long-term relationship, but she’s unhappy because he has a crippling World of Warcraft addiction. What about the old couple behind them?”
My eyes caught sight of the people he was referencing. A couple in their late 60s or early 70’s. Her, with her hair cut short, donning a leather jacket over a pocketed t-shirt. Him, with his ears pierced, and his bright, patterned shirt buttoned all the way to the top, with not a hair out of place on his slightly balding head. “Married for twenty-five years, two adult children, but it’s all a ruse. They’re each other's beards.”
He laughed. “You’re so right. Do you think the kids know?”
“The kids definitely know. I think everyone knows but they don’t want to give up the tax breaks.”
He kept up with me effortlessly and at times, had me trying to keep up. My cheeks would cramp from smiling and my ribs would ache from how he’d make me laugh. He was a breath of fresh air in the stinking smog cloud that was the dating scene. I felt comfortable when I was around him, and that scared me. After all, we’d agreed from the beginning that this would just be casual. He was supposed to be a late-night text, a way to pass a lonely night, nothing more. So how did we get here? How had we stayed up all night the night before, even after hooking up, talking about our families, and what we thought each other's names would be if they weren’t the ones we already had? How had I laid in his bed with him softly kissing my bare shoulder blades and pulling the blanket over me to keep me warm when he thought I was asleep? Part of me was angry that he’d stumbled into my life and now was taking up so much real estate in my mind. I didn’t want to like him. I wanted a night of something simple and meaningless. I didn’t want love. I didn’t want to care about someone again. I just wanted a way to stop being me for a while. That’s all that dating was for me at that time; a way to escape myself, my thoughts, and all my loneliness. The fact that it was short-lived didn’t matter; that way I never risked getting hurt. But now, sitting across from me, was a man who had fucked that all up.
We were quiet on the walk back to his car. When the engine started but we didn’t move, I looked over to see him, brows furrowed in concentration, searching for something on his phone. I was about to ask him if everything was okay, until the song from the lobby came on. It was “Bad Habit” by Steve Lacy. He had been humming the chorus earlier; “I wish I knew, I wish I knew you wanted me.” I almost laughed as the realization hit me that this was as “casual” for him as it was for me, and I was overcome with a sense of ‘knowing’. I felt, in that moment, that I was exactly where I needed to be.
The saying, “When you know, you know,” always seemed tremendously stupid to me. After all, I’d spent six years with my ex, and I’d never felt like I “knew” anything. I was never sure about him. I’d spend hours agonizing over the millions of questions that would run through my head: Am I happy? Do I see a future with him? Is this what love is supposed to feel like? Is this all there is? I had spent so long with him, never being sure, never knowing; it seemed absurd that you could just “know.” Now I know. I was never sure because he was never my person. He also had the emotional intelligence of a pet rock and never did anything for my birthday, which probably didn’t help.
I never believed in fate, or karma, or even God. I never felt like I was being guided in the right direction until I met Hunter. From the night we met, it felt like I’d been searching for him the whole time. It was like I had been adrift at sea and didn’t know there was a shore until I met him. The fear stopped mattering to me. I didn’t care that the future was unpredictable. I didn’t care that by opening myself up I could be giving him the power to hurt me. For the very first time, I just knew. Even before I knew I loved him, or that he loved me back. Even before he saw me at my worst and stayed anyway. Even before I knew that years later, I’d be writing this essay. I knew that he was someone that made breakfast worth waking up for.
