After the cookie sandwiches got finished, packed up for transport the next day and I did the cleanup, I realized that was not happening and then got annoyed because I hadn’t taken anything out to defrost, and I had nothing in the fridge to make.

I opened the door, stared in the fridge and saw my only choice was an omelet, which didn’t sound appetizing.

But at least it was something.

Therefore I made my plans. Omelet. Wine. Book. Bath. Bed.

And no Mickey.

Before I started all that skin tingling excitement, I sent my kids their texts of the day and gave myself my only thrill of the day because I then got their replies.

I had the cheese grated, the garlic minced, the mushrooms sliced and was beating the eggs when my phone on my counter rang.

The display said “Mickey.”

I glared at it and the time above it, which told me it was ten to six.

I wanted to let it ring, go to voicemail, force him to make more of an effort to get in touch with me, but that was petty.

And I was no longer petty.

So I hit the button to accept then hit the button for speaker.

“Hey,” I greeted.

“On my way home from work.”

What?

No.

Whatever.

“Fascinating news,” I replied.

He said nothing for a few seconds before he stated, “Forgot if you had bacon on your burger.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m at Tinker’s. Picking up burgers for us for dinner. Remembered you got Swiss and mushrooms. Forgot if you got bacon.”

He was picking up dinner for us at Tinker’s, the scary burger joint out on route whatever?

No, he was not.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m having an omelet.”

“What?” he asked.

“I’m making an omelet. Right now. I’m covered for dinner.”

“You’re making an omelet for dinner,” he said like this was beyond belief.

“I’m hungry,” I replied.

“Tink’s burgers are better, baby.”

The edifice and its environs might be sketchy, but there was no denying the burgers would be better than an omelet.

“I’m beating the eggs now. If I don’t cook them, they’ll go to waste,” I shared.

There was a smile in his voice when he replied, “Amy, you’re a gazillionaire. Thinkin’ you can probably afford to pour a coupla eggs down the sink.”

“I am, indeed, quite wealthy as we’ve discussed frequently,” I replied tartly. “However, that does not negate the fact people on this earth are starving so it would be irresponsible and insensitive to have food and waste it.”

“Then throw in a coupla more eggs. When I get to your place, I’ll eat that with you,” he returned, sounding like he wanted to eat a roofing shingle between two pieces of bread more than he wanted to share an omelet.