Sunday breakfast

As the waitress laid out the plates of food in front of us, I explained, "Ah, the three most important words in the English language."

"What's that, babe? I love you?"  Peter responded while rotating his plate to orient the eggs closest to him.

"Breakfast served anytime."

"Oh. I think that's four words."

Silly boy didn't know how to spell. I had my usual, pancakes with chocolate chips, and Peter had his, steak 'n eggs over easy with sourdough toast.

Even though the crowds always meant you had to wait for a table, I lived for lazy Sunday brunches at the Steel Eagle Pancake House in Georgetown. I loved it all--the chrome bar stools, the large industrial windows framed by heavy rivets and especially the swirls of greasy bacon smoke coming off the giant grill. Even the models of Boeing airplanes suspended from wires in the ceiling reminded me that blue-collar workers knew how to eat a proper breakfast. So every weekend possible, you'd find us there. We were the picture of domestic predictability.

The waitress freshened Peter's coffee and he promptly put in two packets of sugar and way too much creamer. I corrected him. "Three words. By the way, you're going to get some terrible disease from those runny eggs. Gross."

He poked at the glass in front of me. "You know what's gross? Tomato juice. Disgusting that you drink that. And with pancakes, no less."

"Good for me." I took a gentle sip. "Lotsa vitamins."

I spread a generous puddle of syrup over the fluffy pancakes filled with chocolatey goodness. Bliss. "How was your show last night?"

He didn't answer at first. He stared down, apparently concentrating on sawing into his bloody steak. The answer finally came, a murmured, "Good."

"Didn't hear you come in."

He put down his utensils gently and looked up. He shrugged and raised the corners of his mouth in a little smile. "Partied afterwards... you know how it goes."

I nodded and cored out a little sandwich of pancakes. Peter crunched his toast and mumbled, "So, how was work?"

"Sucks to work Saturdays. Sorry I wasn't home until after you'd left. I had to baby-sit the project team while they ran tests."

"So you're done then?"

"The new loads introduced bugs into the account history module. We had to back out the changes and it looks like I'm going in again next Saturday."

Peter used the tip of his toast to puncture the yolk of the egg. He swirled it around in the icky yellowy goop. "We're playing again next Saturday anyway."

The waitress topped off his coffee and Peter reached for more sugar. I knew better than to ask if these gigs were paying. We could have really used some extra money. I thought about Alexy and his comment about side-work. "I've got a possibility of a gig as well."

Peter's eyebrows rose. I quickly added, "No, not musical. A friend from work said I could make a little cash on the side. You know, computer stuff."

"Is that okay?"

"I'm not talking about anything illegal." I hoped.

"But is it okay with the bank? Are you allowed to moonlight?"

I put down my fork and looked at him. "It didn't matter when you did it at E-tellgentsia."

His gaze went down and he carefully carved away at his steak. All I heard was the clinking of dishes and babble of the other diners around us.

Finally he looked up and said, "Well, it was different then. You know..."

"Yeah, now you need me to keep my job." His eyes stayed down, so I continued, "Well, don't worry. PRB doesn't have a formal policy about moonlighting.
And I'll keep a low profile."

His response was barely audible. "S'okay."


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