Page 123 of The Fed Sex Man

“What was his mode of transportation?” I asked. “A chariot?”

He smiled. “Of sorts.”

“Let me guess.” I tapped the tip of my index finger against my lip and gazed at the ceiling. After a moment of phony contemplation, I met Tyson’s gaze. “He drove a Cobra?”

“Back then he drove a Mustang GT. He didn’t start driving a Cobra until I got a little older.”

Loving Tyson came easily. In many respects, he was still the child his father abandoned. He was thirty-five years old and hadn’t been given an opportunity to share his life, his stories, or his beliefs with anyone.

I liked that I had become that person.

“I love you,” I said.

He kissed me again, this time for real. “I love you, too.”

After cooking our breakfast, I placed the plates at the breakfast nook table. “You better hurry, or you’re going to be late for work, mister.”

“I’ve reached a point that I’m kind of ready for them to fire me.”

I looked up. “What?”

He sat down. “I’m over it.”

“Over what? Working there?”

He cut through the edge of one of his eggs. “Yeah.”

I was shocked. I suspected he’d retire from FedEx. I couldn’t imagine him doing anything else. “I had no idea you were dissatisfied with them.”

He poked the egg in his mouth and bit the corner off his toast. “It’s a stupid job.”

“You’ve worked there since high school.”

“Doesn’t make it any better of a job.”

“You must have liked it at one point or another.”

He gave me a lingering look. “Not anymore.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know.” He looked away. “I’m thinking about it.”

“So, there’s change on the horizon?”

He mopped the yolk from his plate with what remained of his toast. “I’m thinking so.”

The thought of Tyson making changes was exciting. I desperately wanted him to find a way to see my home as inviting, eventually sell his home, and then move in with me. Until that moment came, I couldn’t see it as anything but a pipe dream.

As I nibbled at my bacon I began to wonder if it might someday become reality.

He pushed his plate to the side and took a drink of milk. “That breakfast was spot-on. Just like Pop used to make it.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s difficult as hell to get eggs just the way I like ‘em, but you sure do a good job of it.”

I smiled. “I’m glad you enjoy them. I think it’s that new stove more than anything. They put it in when they re-did the kitchen. Cooking on it is easy.”

“Well, whatever you’re doing, don’t change anything.” He finished his milk. “They’re just the way I like them.”

I swelled with pride. “It’s ninety percent appliance, and ten percent cook. Sometimes, I think that new stove could cook things by itself.”

“I have my doubts.” He stood and reached for his plate. “I’m going to hop in the shower.”

“I’ll clean up,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. “You’re going to be late if you’re not careful.”

He came around the edge of the table and kissed me on the neck. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you, too.”

While he showered, I nibbled my bacon and dreamed.

Not of God driving a Mustang Cobra or eating over medium eggs in his gold-clad robe, but of the day Tyson and I could share a home and eat God’s choice of eggs in our very own kitchen.