Turtles in my navel are having an argument: “It’s not my turn to take out the trash,” hisses Greg, “why do you insist that it is?” A vein on his right temple is pulsing a steady 60 beats per minute; he manages to stay mostly calm – he loves Patricia, after all.
The sun just popped up from behind my left breast. The snails of the morning chill are chased away by the spreading beams of warmth. I’m getting hungry and the turtles in my navel are getting louder. “It’s always your turn, you lazy git,” screeches Patricia – they are having this argument almost every morning. Greg and Patricia are in their late sixties and have lived together for at least forty years. This routine is so efficient by now that it doesn’t distract them from their other morning rituals. Patricia is chopping mushrooms on their tiny kitchen table, precariously perched on the northern slope of my navel, while Greg is sitting at the opposite side of the table hiding behind his newspaper. Across the navel, in a big greasy wok, snails are sizzling with anticipation. “So, do you want your breakfast or not?” — Patricia is unrelenting, and Greg is getting up to take out the trash.
I’m bored with their argument, so I get out of bed and head to the kitchen too. It’s a pancakes kind of morning.
