“Two over-easy eggs with an English muffin and extra-crispy bacon for my beautiful girl,” Burke says, entering the bedroom with a tray. For time-management purposes, I should really avoid buying wooden furniture in the future. I climb out of bed and knock on every wooden object in the room eight times: eight knocks for the headboard, bedside tables, both dressers, windowpanes, closet door, baseboard moldings, and the little hand-carved elephant on my dresser. I recognize the irrational concern as it formulates, but the compulsion has already taken its unshakable hold, and I can’t lose Burke to Alzheimer’s out of sheer laziness.
The fear that my forty-six-year-old boyfriend might be developing early-onset Alzheimer’s suddenly seizes every square inch of my brain. Burke and I have been living together for over two months now. “Right! Thanks.” I sink back into the pillows, confused. “Over easy, right?” he shouts again from the kitchen. It’s how I’ve asked for my eggs every time since we began dating six months ago.īurke is a morning person and I am not, and I love that he’s gotten in the habit of making me breakfast on weekend mornings while I lounge in bed with a book.
I can tell because he asks me three times how I want my eggs. Something is going on with Burke this morning.
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