by valentinestavrou

It was a perfectly ordinary day for a perfectly ordinary girl. She got up at exactly 7a.m, dutiful to her alarm clock. She didn’t rush to the bathroom; she always set her alarm early so she would have time to enjoy her morning ritual. She brewed some coffee and prepared scrambled eggs; she hoped her breath wouldn’t smell of eggs during the day. She had read somewhere, probably in one of her mother’s food magazines, that eggs were the best breakfast one could have. She would often have eggs for dinner too; cooking for one was not something she looked forward to. Not that she didn’t enjoy cooking, she did. But she found that cooking for the mere pleasure of her taste buds alone was no satisfactory at all, so at nights she would nibble on fruit, cheese, nuts, bread, eggs and so on. Just a little something to ease her hunger.

But breakfast,well breakfast was a whole new story. She loved waking up as much as she loved sleeping after a hard days work. During autumn she would sleep with her window open so that birds chirping, and not her alarm clock, would sweetly wake her up in the morking. She would lay in bed for a few minutes anticipating for her day to start; what would today bring?