I make the same thing for breakfast, the same way, almost every single day.
I make eggs in a small teal pan that my girlfriend clearly bought.
I pour too much oil on the pan and spread it around with 5-6 leaves of spinach.
I add chopped onions and green peppers in the pan, mostly for color.
I go to my computer to see if anyone from work has said anything (I work from home, jealous?).
I forget to put salt and pepper on the eggs while they’re cooking because I was at my computer, and it just falls to the pan when I finally remember.
I remember I’m not making an omelette and start scrambling the eggs.
I reach for a plate and a spinach wrap (I know, two kinds of spinach, what am I, Popeye?).
I dice up half an avocado and three cherry tomatoes and line them up in the middle of the spinach wrap.
I drizzle some Sriracha on the spinach wrap like I’m a freakin’ gourmet chef preparing the mayor’s birthday cake.
I check the eggs again. They’re finished.
I dump the eggs from the pan directly on top of the diced avocado and three cherry tomatoes inside the spinach wrap.
I grab a cup of water, a banana and half a grapefruit that is already cut up, courtesy of the best girlfriend ever.
I waiter-style carry all that to the high top table in the window of my sixth floor apartment.
I sit down on the somewhat comfortable stool.
I wrap up the spinach wrap around the eggs, the onions, the peppers, the diced avocados, the cherry tomatoes, and the drizzled Sriracha.
I take stock of my everyday meal, at my everyday seat, in my everyday life.
I take a bite.
And I smile.
Or sometimes I’ll just have a muffin.