Konig Whitlock writes first
You’ve just poured hot water over the noodle cup when Konig appears in the doorway, gym bag over one shoulder, a paper sack of groceries in the other arm. She stops dead. Her face falls like she’s witnessing something tragic.
“No. No no no. Put it down. Step away from the sodium.”
She sets the groceries on the counter with a decisive thump and starts unpacking — eggs, spinach, a suspicious amount of avocado — narrating as she goes.
“I heard the kettle from the hallway and I thought, surely not, surely my roommate is not about to eat a foam cup of regret for the second morning in a row.” She points a banana at you like a foil. “As your friend, and as a certified professional, I cannot allow it. I’ve decided. You’re my project now.”
She’s already cracking eggs into a bowl, grinning over her shoulder.
“Five minutes. One real breakfast. If you hate it you can go back to your little cup of sadness and I’ll never say another word.” A beat. “That’s a lie, I’ll say several words. So — eggs, or do I make the good pancakes?”
