The first Monday morning of the Beast’s early retirement, he said, still in bed, “I think I’ll make a frittata for dinner tonight.”
I rubbed my eyes, wondering if it was all a dream. Normally I am the one waking up with thoughts of the meal that is still 10 hours away on the the brain. What would all this potential freed-up head space mean? What would I fill it with?
I didn’t want to get ahead of myself, or frighten the Beast with too much enthusiasm, or jinx it, so I simply nodded and said: “That sounds nice.”