What they call breakfast, these cold waffles from a box, this watery remembrance of oranges and fake butter in its plastic pail. You set this meal out, though, because you are a grandmother and this is what grandmothers do. Your granddaughter Jessica, three years old and deaf to your command, ignores her waffles, licks syrup from her thumb and runs circles around the table where, years ago, your lover Marek sat, thick wrists set over his plate, his mouth hungry and slick in those languorous hours of morning, the smoky taste of fried bratwurst on his tongue and your breasts.
Your son drops Jessica off each morning, like milk bottles, and the battle begins. She sees you as an old crow, all claw and holler, a swooping hindrance against which her small life assumes dimension. Like you, she favors men, their brute smells and rough hands. When she finds them outside, she flirts.
Once, long ago, near the beginning, Marek brought another man to breakfast. He was slender and so silent with want that you quivered as you slid between them. You did everything they asked and what was worse, you wanted to, you wanted more. There was something nourishing in the degradation. Later, you lay out tortes and tea for both of them, and dipped your tongue into soft-poached yolks.
This Jessica will never know such sultry, misspent mornings – not if you can help it. Because you are a good grandma. You teach her how to behave like a lady, not some slut on the television. You scream her name. When she will not answer, you chase her through the house. You hold her tight by the arm, by the hair, and stare at the tiny nipples beneath her yellow shirt. You pull her into her seat and order her to eat and when she won’t open her mouth, you press a finger into the soft knot at the back of her jaw. Jessica shrieks. She fights against your love, this child, and when you close your eyes you can feel yourself – for a moment – fighting against his love, you can see Marek looming above you, the broad pale chest. This was your ritual back when breakfast was real. He would chase you around the sofa while you wept with laughter, and when he caught you his fingers touched your dampness and your voice took on the drifting timbre of a dream.
I made you breakfast, you tell this girl. Put it in your mouth, honey. Put it in your mouth.
