the morning before

“I’m not sure this is working,” he said, poking at the waffle iron, but addressing something much more tenuous. “Do you mean us?” she asked, softly, rinsing the dishes from last night’s late dinner that she planned to use for the morning’s breakfast. “It’s just cool. No heat,” he said, almost absentmindedly. “Just like us,” she said, quietly, almost under her breath, but not quite. “Maybe it just needs a bit more time,” he said, tapping a fork on the formica countertop. “Time, I have,” she said, this time completely indiscernibly. “Jeesh. Here it is. I just forgot to plug it in,” he said, tapping himself on the forehead. “There. All it needed was that.” She finished wiping the plates, then sat, at the table, watching him, feeling that he’d hit it squarely on the head without suspecting it. That was how he was. It wasn’t how she was. She felt the impending doom, but smiled nicely, politely, bravely, keenly.