He's leaning against the door frame. The sunshine heating his bare feet and the birds singing to the morning, he inhales deeply. Absent mindedly stirring the pancake batter destined for his breakfast. The low hum of cars going by and voices mix into a persistent and familiar tune. Leaning back into the cool of his house he glances at the stovetop.
Cluttered with the pan, butter, plates, toppings, and materials he had used to create the light brown mixture under his arm, the oven was ready. Smelling the cinnamon and vanilla clinging to the air, he smiles and butters the pan. A few final stirs and then the first pancake is sizzling. Stepping away from the oven and back outside, he takes in the scene.
A lazy morning, a simple recipe, and a smile on his face. Adjusting his bathrobe around his waist, he fidgets with his hands trying to place his finger on what's wrong. Despite the sunshine, the pleasant cooling of the wind, and the smell of cinnamon, something still feels off. Walking inside and flipping the pancake over, he watches the batter bubble out from underneath and turn golden. Each minute going by, and each item he cooks landing on the plate besides him. Honey, fruit, and syrup all join the stacks accumulating, yet his hands don't stir to touch any.
Running the water from his sink, he quickly washes the dirty dishes and slips on street clothes. Draping the bathrobe over his bed room door and stepping outside with the plate full of food. Gingerly making his way down steep stairs, rounding the corner, and drivenly marching down the street, he comes up to an older man resting against the concrete. Without words, he sits, places the plate between them and starts to eat. After a few bites, he looks over, gesturing to the plate and raising his eyebrows. Together, the two sit in silence, the hum of the cars on the street providing a city's only melody.