The Soil

I hear the soft pads of your feet descend the stair case, quickly followed by the hurried sound of paws on hardwood.

I pause reading the newspaper and look up as Milo, our three-year-old German shorthair, rounds the corner first and gallops over to me. I scratch behind the pup's ears, laughing when he rolls over to show me his belly.

You appear only a moment later, and your hair is still mussed from sleep. Even in your white t-shirt and sleep shorts, you look so handsome.

"Good morning," I say, lifting a mug of piping hot coffee to my lips. You walk towards me, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, before stooping down to give me a swift kiss on the head. "Good morning," you say into my hair. Your familiar smell - a mix of pine and detergent - envelopes me. A fluttering sensation hits my stomach.

A moment later you step back and sniff the air suspiciously. "Is that... pancakes I smell?"

"I thought I'd make you breakfast, since it's, you know, a big day," I explain, feeling shy all of a sudden.

You reach the counter and peel back the carefully laid tinfoil to reveal the steaming stack of fresh blueberry pancakes. You smile. "Thank you, Bails," you say, and I blush at the nickname.

"You're welcome." I resume reading the newspaper as you grab a mug from the cabinet and fill it with the extra coffee I left in the pot.

Finally, you lower yourself into the seat across from me, plate stacked high with blueberry pancakes and topped with maple syrup.

"Breakfast of champions," you say, licking your lips. I hum in agreement and set aside the newspaper to resume eating my own small stack of pancakes. Milo lays under the table between us, watching diligently for any food that may fall. Soft, morning sunlight filters in through the small window to my right, making everything in the kitchen look shinier: the polished tabletop, the metal fork in your hand, the bridge of your nose all seem to glow.

"How'd you sleep?" you ask me in between bites.

"Good. The new sheets you bought are really comfortable," I say, watching a stray blond curl dance across your forehead as you eat, "Thank you, again."

"Of course," you say with a wink, jaw working as you chew. Most guys look cheesy when they wink like that, but not you. Swoon-worthy, I'd called you on the day we met.

"How about you?" I ask as I swirl a piece of gooey pancake in a pool of syrup.

You sigh and start to bounce your leg under the table. "Not great. Just nerves, I think. I always get like this on the night before a presentation."

"You'll do great today. You always do," I say confidently.

You smile at me gratefully. "Thank you, Bails. You always know the right thing to say."

I smile back, resting my chin in my hand as you continue to eat.

"But enough about me. What're your plans for today?" you ask.

"I might work on that crochet project some more..." you hum in acknowledgment and I bring my attention to my coffee cup before continuing, "and, I was thinking maybe I'll go outside for a bit. Maybe do a little yardwork?"

Your chewing slows, and I know you'll choose your next words carefully. "I don't know if that's a good idea. Last time -"

"That was different. I was going through a lot, you know. I was still adjusting to the new house... plus, the backyard is in desperate need of weeding," I argue.

You nod your head in thought, but your eyes are distant with worry. I reach across the table and grasp your hand. "Nothing is going to happen."

You squeeze my hand back. "Promise?"

"Promise," I swear. We stare at each other for a long moment, the words hanging between us. With a final squeeze, you release my hand and gather the dirty dishes and place them in the kitchen sink.

"Alright," you say again, "I have to get ready for work - wish me luck," you cross the room towards the staircase.

I call your name.

You pause with one foot on the bottom stair, brows furrowing until finally you look down. "Oh - right. Sorry," you apologize. You fish a set of ordinary keys out of your pocket and then you kneel before me.

The familiar sound of tinkling metal fills the room. I hear a loud click and then you rise to your feet.

I glance down at my ankles. Smooth metal shackles encircle each one, and the long, metal chain that snakes off of them pools at my feet. Milo sniffs at the discarded dead bolt a foot away, no longer anchoring me to the kitchen floor. I gather the excess chain in my arms and then stand up from my chair.

"Thank you," I say, and before I can think better of it, I give you a quick peck on the cheek. I feel your eyes on me as I walk slowly towards the stairs that will lead me out of the basement I call home.