As I hung up the phone, I leapt toward the kitchen.  I loved to cook.  It was by far my favorite activity in the whole world.  No other deed made my heart at peace quite like it.  I’m sure most of you are wondering why a vampire would love to cook.  It’s common knowledge that vamps are on a liquid diet.  Wrong again.  In reality, I have to eat MORE than I used to in order to maintain my metabolism, thank God!  I’d always loved to eat but I had such a slow metabolism I could barely consume a thousand Calories without gaining weight.  Eating and sleeping had always been my favorite activities, though.  It’s strange one of my favorite things is sleeping when I’m an insomniac but, then again, maybe not.  I’ve always loved eating and was well-known in family lore, for example, for my innate ability to eat inhuman amounts of bread.  There was that time at Outback during my teenage years when the waitress looked at me funny and said with a mix of shock and chagrin, "Another?  Haven't you had enough?"  But, that's another story altogether.

As I entered the kitchen, I felt at home.  I glided to the fridge and started pulling out eggs, milk, sausage, bagels, the bacon you only have to microwave because I hate getting burned to hell and back by the grease but absolutely LOVE bacon, and fake biscuits because I’m lazy.  Okay, so the biscuits weren't as fake as the bacon but still...

I pulled out the frying pans, started frying sausage, broke and scrambled the eggs and moved on to starting the pancakes.  I always use these packets that are pre-made (sort of) where all you need to do is add water.  I grabbed three bags and started mixing them to the proper proportions.

In no time, the biscuits were done, the sausage gravy was warming on the stove, the eggs were yellow and fluffy and the pancakes were perfectly golden with exactly three chocolate chips each, evenly spaced.  Am I OCD or what?  I tossed the bacon and the bagels in the microwave and waited for the doorbell to ring to signal break time.  Invariably, I would eat the vast majority of this and there wouldn’t be any leftovers.  Chase would stare at me with a half bemused, half are you crazy look.  I started cleaning up.  I grabbed the spare eggs and bacon, poured myself a glass of milk and grabbed that too.  Remarkably, I opened the door without hands.  Ask me some day and I just might show you how I do it.  I put the bacon and eggs away on a shelf and pushed the blood aside to put the milk away.  Hey, sometimes it helps to have an emergency backup, right?  I grabbed the butter and started setting the table.

In moments, I finished setting the table and started putting all the food out when the bell rang.  “In a minute,” I yelled at the door as I made the finishing touches.  I looked back at the kitchen, now emptied of food but scary in its disorder.  Oh well, I’d clean it up later.  “Coming!” I said to the door again.  I went over, checked the monitor next to the door and there he was on the display, a little weird-looking with the downward angle of the lens but handsome as ever in his jeans and just barely tight-fitting black tee-shirt that looked like it said: “You should see the other guy.”  He had long black hair that came about down to his shoulders.  You couldn’t see it on the monitors but he had the most beautiful blue eyes I’d ever seen.  I unlocked the door.  “Come on in.”  For obvious reasons, I never opened the door for people during the day.  Chase came in, closed the door and I said, “Come on.  I’m starving.”  He laughed.  He had a good laugh.  With a smile on my face that belied my statement, I said, “I’m serious.  Let’s get to eating!”

One of the wonderful things about our breakfasts is they last forever.  We spend most of the time either eating while the other person is talking or vice versa.  We talked about our days (yesterday for him or last night for me).  Of course, I omitted a few details he might not understand.  As for the news, Chase got a call at the hospital about a “disturbance.”  Apparently, a CNA (Certified Nursing Assistant for those not in the know) freaked out when she walked into a patient’s room.  A little flustered and maybe fearing trouble, an orderly called the cops.  After they resolved the misunderstanding, the patient was discharged.  Apparently, the staff felt if the patient was healthy enough to have sex, the person was healthy enough to be discharged.  The entire floor had laughs at that person’s expense all day.  I gotta admit.  If I’d been there, I'd have been laughing too, even if I’d been the one walking in on them.

Photo credit: User:Gnangarra / Foter.com / CC BY

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