The Scent of Sunscreen and Morning Coffee

I spent three hours yesterday scrubbing the grime off my favorite frying pan just to feel like I had some control over a world that moves too fast. Then came today: an exhibition hall buzzing with artificial lights and loud music, where I’m expected to be someone else—a fox-eared fantasy in light blue lace.
But between taking photos for the crowd, my mind kept drifting back to you and our tiny apartment kitchen. I could almost smell the burnt toast we always make on Tuesdays and feel the rough texture of your hand against mine while we argue over which brand of oat milk is actually worth the premium price.
Someone asked me if I was nervous; I just smiled and flashed a peace sign, but my heart was doing something else. It was remembering how you’d looked at me this morning—really looked at me—before I stepped into these heels. You didn't say 'you look beautiful'; instead, you handed me an extra piece of sliced apple and told me to make sure I drank enough water.
That practical kind of love is what keeps my feet on the ground while wearing cat ears in a crowd of thousands. Now, as the flashbulbs pop around me, all I want is to shed this delicate costume like old skin and crawl back into your oversized t-shirt, smelling of home and real life.

Editor: Grocery Philosopher