I got out the eggs and threw them into the silver mixing bowl, avoiding the little puffs of flour that were wafting out over the edges. He had yet to arrive, but I couldn’t really blame him. It was 6:58. He had told me he wanted to make crepes. I asked him if he knew how to make crepes and he had shaken his head. This is when I offered to help. 

We were supposed to make breakfast for about 15 people who were still on the campus of the boarding school we attended. I told him that in order to make crepes and get everything else done, I was going to get started at 6:30. He had taken this to mean that if he got there at 7:00 I would already have a good start on things and could direct him from there.

While the batter thickened, I walked over to the cups and pulled two of them out for us. I then opened the two bottles of coconut-mocha iced Frappuccino’s pouring half in one glass and half in the other. I then downed the other bottle. I figured if I was going to deal with him this early in the morning in the state the two of us were in, I should be caffeinated when he got there.

He had said we were going to talk about all of our problems; that we would sit down and discuss them all and finally get to the bottom of it. I was skeptical at the time, and two days later I was even more so. I knew that I shouldn’t even be helping him this morning until we had figured it all out, but the image of him trying to make crepes alone at 7:00 in the morning made me sad, and so here I was standing fully made up with eggs already made and on the stove to stay hot and crepe batter almost completely finished.

I was in the backroom getting heavy whipping cream when he came in. I couldn’t hear him over the Avril Lavigne I was blaring over the kitchen speakers. He came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped slightly, dropping the bottle of cream back into the milk cooler. He was wearing a pink tank top with a black pocket and a pair of black plaid shorts. He had obviously just woken up and had a very impressive brown cowlick sticking up from the left side of his head.

“Good morning,” I said, amused by his appearance.
“Morning,” he mumbled back.

I picked up the bottle of cream again and headed back into the main kitchen, him following in my footsteps.
“Here is a cup of coffee, I don’t like you when you’re not caffeinated,” I said, handing him one of the cups while taking a sip from the other.

He looked suspiciously at it for a moment before saying “you didn’t poison it, did you?”

“No, but if you had made me wait fifteen more minutes I was going to,” I said.
“Cool, what do you want me to do?” He asked.

“Well first of all, I bet you would be much more happy with your music playing, so go ahead and switch that, and then if you could start making the potatoes that would be great,” I said.

“Ok, I’ve got this special recipe I use for potato spices that you are going to love,” he replied excitedly.

“Also, you’ve got a little bit of bedhead, you might consider running some water over your head,” I said.
He rolled his eyes at me.

I went and got the crepe batter and started to pour it into the pan. I had also never made crepes before, but I had far more experience baking then him, and I knew I could figure it out if I tried hard enough. The first few were thicker then I would have liked, but after a little while I was creating thin and perfectly fried crepes that resembled the ones shown on the recipes page. I was reaching the end of the batter when a fork appeared in front of my face.
“Try these potatoes?” He said to me.

I denied his attempt to feed me and took the fork out of his hand. I chewed the potatoes methodically and tried to identify the different spices found in them. I could taste salt and paper, and what seemed to be basil. They were quite good.

“There okay,” I replied, handing the fork back to him.
“They are way better then just ok,” he replied, sounding wounded.

“Sorry, there the best potatoes I’ve ever had,” I corrected myself before returning to my work.

I was hoping he would catch the hint that I was frustrated with his lack of commitment to the conversation we needed to have. I had told him that we couldn’t be friends the way things were, it was just too confusing. He would treat me very nicely one day and then the next as if I didn’t exist. We had been through the emotional ringer, culminating in me telling him I loved him and him ignoring me for a couple of months. We had finally found our way back to something you might call normal, but then this cycle started up and I had to draw a line.

I finished the crepes and walked over to get another mixing bowl. He had changed the music to a chiller reggae artist that he liked, but I could never remember the name of. I poured the whipping cream into the mixer and started to add the sugar. He walked over to me and asked what I wanted him to do next. I asked him to set the tables for me and he went off to do that. I then went into the back room in order to melt some chocolate chips. When I got back he was standing in front of my mixing bowl a spatula full of whipped cream in one hand. He put his finger on the tip of it as if getting ready to fling it at me.

“You wouldn’t dare,” I said.
Apparently he would have. The cold creamy substance hit me directly on the right cheek and splatted across my lips and the floor behind me.
“Let me ask you something. What would give you the inclination that throwing whipped cream at me would be a good idea right now?” I said, my voice dangerously cold.

He was grinning from ear to ear, his cowlick still sticking up and a little whipped cream hiding in the corner of his lips. He shrugged before replying, “we’re friends.”

“Actually, no we’re not,” I said, scraping what I could of the whipped cream on my face off with my fingers.
“What do you mean?” He asked, his grin turning to a look of confusion.

“I mean I told you that I can’t do this friendship the way it is anymore. You said we could talk about it, and then you keep putting it off. Right now were in a sort of emotional limbo that somehow involves me getting up early in the morning and helping you make crepes,” I replied.

I moved forward to turn off the mixer and he moved to the other side of me.

“What can I say that will make you happy?” He asked me.
I thought of several things I wished he would say. “I love you.” “You are way too good to me.” “I need you in my life.” None of these were things he would ever actually say, or at least never mean. I finally decided on what I wanted from him.

“I need you to give me a day and time that we are going to have this conversation. That’s what would make me happy.”
“Ok, how about Saturday,” he said.
“Saturday, perfect. At what time?” I asked.
“Noon,” he replied.
“Ok, Saturday at noon,” I said
“Are you happy now?” He asked me, his face turning back into a grin.

I turned and stuck my hand into the whipped cream, grabbing a small glob of it. I reached up and tussled his course brown hair, using the whipped cream as a kind of gel. He looked down at me confusedly for a second while I admired my handy work. His cowlick was nowhere to be seen.

“Very,” I replied walking over to the microwave with the chocolate chips.

“Will you do me a favor and get me more of those potatoes, they were very good,” I asked.
“Told you,” he said laughing as he walked over to get a bowl.

He may have been a sleep deprived, cocky, ass hole at times, but I knew that if he showed up Saturday at Noon we could work things out. We got breakfast out on time and everybody said that it was a hit.

“Were the dream team of breakfast,” he said to me as we put our dishes away.

“Yeah we are,” I said smiling back at him, “I’m kind of glad I didn’t poison your coffee,” I said as we walked out of the kitchen.