Kitchen table. Morning, Tuesday. I made you breakfast. You made me late.

“I’m late.” I say.

“I’m sorry.” You reply. I forgive you. Just like that. The fuzz and hum of morning commutes trickles through the slight gap in the window. “What are you late for?” You enquire. I can’t remember. I can hear you chew. The newsprint has grayed your fingers; the dishwater has wrinkled them. Flour from the morning loaf has silvered your hair.

“I’m late.” I say.

“I’m sorry.” You reply. I forgive you. You forgive me too.