One

Leo wakes to the rumble of his stomach. He reaches for the button on his alarm clock, unsure why he bothers setting the thing when he’s always up before it anyway.

He snakes out from under the covers and grabs his robe, an old flannel rag Nora has been threatening to toss. But he prizes it, even if it is tattered, linty, undeniably musty, not holding up well under assaults from the washing machine. A small hole has crept into the seam of the left pocket, so when Nora held it up and said in her I’m-trying-to-be-reasonable voice, “Leo, the thing reeks,” he could only point out that another rinse cycle might kill it. L.L. Bean had stopped making them (“And there is a reason for that,” Nora would say, eyeing it from her side of the bed), so a certain olfactory presence has to be tolerated. He couldn’t admit it to her, but he has come to feel the robe is his morning companion. Old and loyal, it sits waiting for him by the foot of the bed, eager to be put to service. A sort of sartorial dog.

He pads into the living room and reaches across the counter to set the coffee brewing. This is his routine, his morning lap: wake, hit the alarm, slip from the bedroom, an a.m. assassin. Follow the curve of the breakfast bar, start the coffeemaker (another device he beats to the punch), and smack on the lights of the guest bathroom.

Only here, under the bright flood of fluorescents, does he begin to feel awake, as though the series of moves that brought him to the white bowl (whose seat he is mercifully permitted to leave up) were performed on autopilot. Leo plunges his hands into the water at the sink before it has a chance to warm.

His morning is predictable, unassailable. Even today, a familiar dilemma awaits: There is the gnawing in his stomach and the reality of the dormant kitchen, with only himself to fill the gap.

Every morning this comes as a quiet devastation, for certain promises had been made when they first moved in together. “You’ll have such a sucky commute,” Nora rued as they unpacked boxes. “I should, like, make breakfast for you.”

“You’re a night owl,” he pointed out.

“I don’t mean every morning. But I could whip up something on weekends. A big scramble or a quiche, that’d be easy enough.”

He was so touched by this vision, so moved by the portrait of domesticity she painted, that he’d given an embarrassed shrug and mumbled, “That’d be nice.” Instead—and he sees this now, with the wincing clarity of hindsight—he should have pounced on the offer, taken her up on it right there. But he was like a virgin being offered a blow job, too startled by the offer in its wondrous generosity to accept. He should have held her to it when he had the chance, cementing it into their routine. Because now, after living together for so long, the thought of making him breakfast would cause Nora to double over with laughter. He didn’t know it then, but the terms get set at the start.

It doesn’t matter that he is the breadwinner, the majority owner in the franchise of their domestic life. The person who, for some time (years!), has posted the rent and slipped the credit card onto the bill at dinner, shielding the amount from her eyes. And he does it, waking hideously early, so that they can have this urban loft that she had loved. A place near Rittenhouse, she’d said, because she wasn’t quite ready for Philly’s outskirts.

And in exchange, in exchange, would it be so much to ask? Not to whip up a fresh plate of eggs for him each morning or anything like that, though some vestigial part of him toys with the image occasionally: Nora in an apron, a floral counterpoint to his flannel robe. Leo understands this is off-limits, not to be considered. But if even the weekend quiche is impossible, would it be so much to have her there with him? If she could just be there, perched at the counter on a stool, what a luxury that would be.

Instead, the specter of her promise taunts him each morning. There is no quiche for you in the fridge, the empty kitchen seems to gloat, and he feels her words sail away all over again. “Remember that time, how you said . . . ,” he might begin, but she’d scowl and shoot him that look, that look that said a thousand things (How could you? How dare you? Are you thoughtless, insensitive, a caveman?) in one bullet of a glance.

The kitchen is gray, quiet. He pauses at its threshold. Speckled Formica masquerades as granite; linoleum sits underfoot. A stem rack above the sink allows inverted glassware to drip directly into the basin below, and this detail, of all things, had sold Nora on the place. “That one with the stem rack,” she said fondly when they were deliberating between apartments, no matter that he could’ve installed one in any of the contenders for all of twenty bucks.

When they signed the lease, he figured the kitchen presented an opportunity. Potential, in the jargon of real estate. They had the option to buy, which he assumed they’d promptly do, never imagining that five years of rent would go down the tubes.

His plan had been to put in new countertops. Quartz seemed like a good bet; granite was surely on its way out. Stainless steel appliances, maybe one of those wine storage units his parents have, glowing blue. The investment would be worth it. Apartments in the building were getting snatched up and the market was bulletproof. His dad would nod approvingly, eyeing the finished reno. Would nod and say, “Smart move.”

Of course, the ideal apartment would be in a building that solved the whole breakfast conundrum. Leo pictures a buffet, maybe like a grown-up dorm. Newspapers in the corner, one of those conveyor belts where you stick your tray. Enter, eat, leave.

As it is, the common space of the Club Room at 2400 Locust sits untouched, the oversize couches and mounted flat-screen getting traffic only during tours, future residents imagining parties that never actually take place. Why not have a breakfast plan instead? It could be pitched to the working crowd, the commuters and consultants and corporates like him who share the elevator, waiting for the doors to open so they can resume scrolling on their BlackBerrys. Nothing fancy, just a way to help the early risers tackle the morning. Genius.

Because no one should have to do this. Stand there unshowered, unshaved, trying to figure out what to cook. Only after having coffee and breakfast does he feel capable of making coffee and breakfast. And he can never bring himself to down a bowl of cereal or one of those protein bars.

“You’re like a Brit,” his mom likes to say when he piles on the eggs and sausage at Sunday brunch. He ignores her, not wanting to encourage her Europhile moments, but the truth is that he’d loved London. He’d stopped there on his way to see Nora when she was studying abroad. He’d crashed with Geoff, a friend doing a semester at LSE—the kind of thing his parents had hoped he would do (“LSE!” his dad had boomed. “I did a year there, you know.” Yes, Dad. We know).

He liked the city more than he thought he would. People had warned him about the food, but he liked that, too. Bangers and mash, black pudding. There was no freak-out about cholesterol, fat. They ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowl. Ate it without apology. Between the pints and the fry-ups, Leo felt a heightened sense of manliness. Soccer—football—was not muted in the background so that your girlfriend could talk to you and test your levels of eye contact. It was on full blast, all eyes fixed its way. The women talked to each other or were fans themselves.

He watches the coffeemaker speculatively, the pot still empty, a few dribbles collecting at its base. It is a relic, black plastic, a freebie from when Nora signed them up for a coffee subscription service. It claimed to have an “auto pause” feature so that you could pour while brewing, but whenever he tries that, it keeps right on going, the drips hitting the vacated plate with a hiss. They should register for something better, if he can ever get Nora around to registering. Maybe one of those espresso machines, shiny and chrome, a Ferrari to greet him in the morning.

He tugs open the fridge door, breaking the hermetic seal of the cushioned rubber, and spots the eggs hiding in the back—a day past their date but surely fine. He grabs the carton along with the package of bacon, squishy and cold. He’ll make a scramble, maybe adding the Chinese sausage left over from last night, sweet and toothsome. Two kinds of pork at breakfast! Stephen would be disgusted. Stephen, too filled with ideas to ever need food.

He starts the bacon in the cast iron skillet. Nora never touches it, put off by the fact that you aren’t supposed to wash it. “No soap?” she asked, incredulous. Her pots and pans are scrubbed to a mirrored finish, gleaming as they hang above him on the pot rack. The skillet, meanwhile, sits out of sight in the cabinet, the bastard child of the kitchen. It is unsightly, barnacled; Nora is right that the kitchen looks better with it hidden. Still, he has a soft spot for it, for all the dorm rooms and camping trips it’s seen him through. You’re no city boy, it rasps.

The flannel robe gathers about him loyally, warm.

The cat interrupts his thoughts, pressing his leg. A dramatic stretch—her back foot lingering in the interstice between steps—before she goes in for the head-butt.

“Maria,” he greets her, leaning down to scratch under her chin. She purrs, the sound traveling up his hand.

Nora had adopted the cat after she graduated, naming it after some opera singer. He was in Boston at the time, a year of school still left. “I figured she’d be good company,” Nora explained. “It’s weird, being here with everyone gone.” By everyone, he knew she meant Stephen. Leo couldn’t tell what bothered her more: her mother’s illness or her best friend’s absence. Still, he’d taken the cat as a good omen. A pet was surely a sign of hope.

“Breakfast?” She cries, delighted, leading the way to her bowl. Clever girl, he thinks. They understand what we say better than we understand them. He pops a piece of sausage into his mouth after feeding her and glances up at the kitchen clock. 7:12. He saunters over to the bedroom door.

“Hungry?” he calls out. He hears stirring, the rustle of bedcovers.

“Mnnn.” A noncommittal grunt. Not hungry, he decides.

“Tea?” he tries.

Another grunt, more affirmative.

“Tea it is,” he tells the cat, who mews in response.

He returns to the skillet and presses the bacon. One of the world’s best sounds, surely. He cracks three eggs, tossing the shells into the disposal. He shoots, he scores! He fills the kettle with water even though it will take a small eternity. Nora will smile from beneath the covers when she hears its whistle.

The service starts at ten, so they should leave by eight thirty. Nine at the latest. But he planned an early start, figuring Nora would insist on her time alone. And this way there will be no tensions, no bickering. He won’t have to consult his watch and then the kitchen clock, muttering, “Christ, Nora, traffic!” He’ll go for his run and maybe even enjoy it, not wondering why on earth she felt the need to banish him from the apartment.

The eggs lift their milky-white edges from the skillet as they set. He shovels the whole mess of it onto a plate, the sausage lumped in with the eggs, the bacon like a carpet beneath. The plunge of his fork releases the yolk in a bright yellow stream. Nora has probably drifted back to sleep, but soon the kettle will sound its opening notes and the white mountain of duvet will stir.

He glances at the phone mounted on the wall. His parents were probably doing their own version of this routine a few blocks away on Delancey, nibbling egg whites and toast. It’s ridiculous that they’re still hosting the party. “But this is what he wants,” Nora murmured last night over dinner. “Your dad loves Bloomsday. It’s his thing.” Maybe. Leo doesn’t understand the party during a normal year, let alone this one. “Of course that’s what he says,” he replied. “He just doesn’t want to disappoint my mom.”

His dad isn’t the type to make a fuss. This is what he nearly told Nora, that his dad isn’t the type to let a funeral get in the way. But the words had stalled on his tongue, some instinct preserving him.

He won’t call home now. It’s far too early. But maybe he’ll swing by on his jog. He usually defaults into tourist mode, chugging past Independence Hall and Penn’s Landing, as though his feet can come up with nothing more original when left to their own devices. Today he will stop by Delancey, his father passing him that look, the one reserved just for him. Not of pride, exactly, but of recognition. My son. Stephen would never think to check on their folks.

Leo will assemble breakfast for Nora the way she likes, tea and toast on that silver tray. It’s warped, a flea-market find, but it makes her feel special. He’ll take the paper with him into the guest bathroom, this time more content, sated after his meal. Linger pleasantly as his bowels release, the ripe perfume of the morning rising to greet him, the world spread before him in black and white: sports section, tech news, headlines. A second bathroom could be the thing that saves relationships.

When he hits the streets at a steady clip, the owner of the corner bodega will nod at him, his Korean eyes quiet, kind. Flowers set out in white buckets, dripping onto the sidewalk below.

He’ll leave the tray with a note (See you in an hour. Love, L) and then shut the door behind him. Twisting the bolt so that Nora, hearing its click, will know she has her time. And, with luck, they will be on their way.