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Endless Summer, Day...does it matter?
Dec. 17th, 2012 09:19 amThere's something about that first cup of coffee on a Saturday morning. The scent filling the kitchen, the sun-splashed tile and metal and glass, checking his phone and finding no emergencies, nothing he needs to deal with yet.
Just the paper, and coffee, set up the night before and brewing by itself, like a freaking miracle, because Steve seems to have decided that coffee-making is Danny's problem, preferring the judicious application of cold water and early morning to wake himself up. It took an hour of puzzling through the instruction manual that Steve had kept, like the OCD freak he is (with the original box, who keeps the box the coffee maker came in? There are times Danny looks at the attic and despairs) and a couple of ruined batches, but he'd figured it out eventually and now, when he comes downstairs, barefoot in loose sweatpants and an old t-shirt (one of Steve's, they're soft from too many washes and more comfortable than anything he's ever bought for himself), hair wild and eyes still a little bleary, the coffee is ready.
It is truly like a gift from God.
He pauses in opening the fridge, listening to what sounded like a creak from upstairs, but either Grace isn't up yet, or she's pretending not to be, because no footsteps follow. Or maybe she's already up and in the water, what does he know? She's developing an intensely worrying ability to sneak up on him. He suspects Steve's been teaching her survival skills in the woods when he's not paying attention, and that's all well and good, even if the thought of his Gracie hunting wild boar is unsettling in the extreme, but he draws the line at special ops. Grace does not need to know how to ninja her way into a locked and guarded building, or to blindside some poor unsuspecting sap.
That's what she has Steve for, right?
Milk, sugar, padding through the dining room to the lanai door, and it's only moments before he's parked in his favorite chair, squinting into the sun and watching the dot in the water that's Steve, cutting through waves. He used to bring out a mug for him, too, before he realized that half the time it would go cold before Steve got in, and that Steve preferred water before coffee and after exercise first, anyway, so there's an empty mug back on the counter, waiting, and anyway, Danny's not his maid. He can get his own damn coffee.
Stretching his legs out, he leans back, sips at his coffee, watching clouds pass, lazy, along the path of winds and updrafts. The phone is nearby, but thus far there's been nothing but a text from Kono pointing out the waves today are extra choice, so get your ass on the water, old man, which he may or may not do, depending.
Definitely not just past dawn, but she is, as always, a crazy woman.
Just the paper, and coffee, set up the night before and brewing by itself, like a freaking miracle, because Steve seems to have decided that coffee-making is Danny's problem, preferring the judicious application of cold water and early morning to wake himself up. It took an hour of puzzling through the instruction manual that Steve had kept, like the OCD freak he is (with the original box, who keeps the box the coffee maker came in? There are times Danny looks at the attic and despairs) and a couple of ruined batches, but he'd figured it out eventually and now, when he comes downstairs, barefoot in loose sweatpants and an old t-shirt (one of Steve's, they're soft from too many washes and more comfortable than anything he's ever bought for himself), hair wild and eyes still a little bleary, the coffee is ready.
It is truly like a gift from God.
He pauses in opening the fridge, listening to what sounded like a creak from upstairs, but either Grace isn't up yet, or she's pretending not to be, because no footsteps follow. Or maybe she's already up and in the water, what does he know? She's developing an intensely worrying ability to sneak up on him. He suspects Steve's been teaching her survival skills in the woods when he's not paying attention, and that's all well and good, even if the thought of his Gracie hunting wild boar is unsettling in the extreme, but he draws the line at special ops. Grace does not need to know how to ninja her way into a locked and guarded building, or to blindside some poor unsuspecting sap.
That's what she has Steve for, right?
Milk, sugar, padding through the dining room to the lanai door, and it's only moments before he's parked in his favorite chair, squinting into the sun and watching the dot in the water that's Steve, cutting through waves. He used to bring out a mug for him, too, before he realized that half the time it would go cold before Steve got in, and that Steve preferred water before coffee and after exercise first, anyway, so there's an empty mug back on the counter, waiting, and anyway, Danny's not his maid. He can get his own damn coffee.
Stretching his legs out, he leans back, sips at his coffee, watching clouds pass, lazy, along the path of winds and updrafts. The phone is nearby, but thus far there's been nothing but a text from Kono pointing out the waves today are extra choice, so get your ass on the water, old man, which he may or may not do, depending.
Definitely not just past dawn, but she is, as always, a crazy woman.
