March 12, 2005

The Breakfast Club

I toiled the entire morning composing my guest list. How dare they be late?

Extra Crispy Bacon had indeed come late to my party! The greek doorman announced their arrival with a gusto as he left my side to assist other guests at the delightful Palace du Petit Dejeuner.

As host, I simply regarded the crunchy pig fat with scornful, withering disdain.

Having already mingled with always charming Rye Toast, elegantly dressed in a gown of royal purple, and having already danced with the delightful Over Easy Eggs, conjoined sisters who are such gossips, invariably spilling their golden secrets with each spin, I was simply disinterested in what the slender, Southern gentlemen had to offer. Even though they are my favorite guests. Hmph. They'd have to beg for my approval.

How dare they be tardy! Perhaps it wasn't their fault. They were held up in line, even though I clearly added them to the guest list. Regardless, my time was best spent smoking with Mexican Hashbrown, an acrid hombre with whom I soon grew hotly complacent. Across the crowded room Extra Crispy Bacon eyed me, almost pleadingly for my affections. I couldn't stay angry any further.

"Gentlemen, welcome to my party."

"What?" My boyfriend Bryce looked up from his newspaper and the clattering silverware and hustle of the Long Island City Cafe deflated my elegant breakfast ball. Outside the window, the 7 train rumbled overhead on a gray March morning.

"Oh. . . I was dancing with my breakfast." I smiled and delicately nibbled my bacon.

"May I have the next dance?" And I'm reminded why I like this guy so much.

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