The idea came when I heard him roll over. I’d promised him a cooking lesson, even if that really had been a euphemism for sex. One way or another, I’d give him one.
His refrigerator was as pathetic as he’d claimed, limiting my options. The cupboard was only mildly better. Ten minutes later, I had measured and set out the ingredients he was going to need, chopped up the peppers and onions, and turned on the oven to heat up. It took another five to write out the instructions for an easy version of huevos rancheroslegibly enough for him to be able to read.
My stomach growled as I let myself out. Too bad I couldn’t stick around to share it with him, but it wasn’t worth it for both of us to be sleep-deprived.