The Unexpected Breakfast

John's eyes slowly blinked open. He began his day stretching while looking at the falling snow that had accumulated into drifts while he slept. His early-morning eyes swept across the alarm clock. 8:34. 8:34?!? He was late. This wasn't cool at all. Late for work, and it was snowing out. Nice. The commute was going to be horrible. His mind filled with images of plow trucks doing too little, too late, fender benders, spinouts, looky-loos, and lunatics in SUV's weaving through traffic as if impervious to inclement weather.

Late was late, so there was no point in rushing. The network would still be there when he got in. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat, yawning and rubbing at his face. Grabbing the BlackBerry, he went through the overnight alerts. A switch in Toronto crashed and reloaded. That stupid DS3 died again! When would those telco losers fix their stuff? A BGP neighbor lost and found. But overall, a quiet night in Syslogville.

Clicking some other icons, John checked the social networks. Facebook was quiet, which was okay with him. He wasn't sure he could handle another invitation to “Which Disney Song Are You?” Twitter was...less tweety than usual. So he tweeted, “I hate anyone who isn't driving through the snow this morning” to get the timeline rolling, and then headed over to Google News...where again, all was quiet. Well. A day without a new economic crisis or political scandal couldn't be bad.

With resignation, John stood up. Standing was a commitment to do what was expected of him, but staying in bed was tempting, especially today. He glanced at the snow again, but renewed his determination upon realizing that the 10 gig network wouldn't design itself. The timesheet wouldn't fill itself in. Lunch with the “Packet Patrol” wouldn't eat itself. There were status reports to write, quotes to get, configs to review, change controls to reject, n00bs to mentor, and feeds to read. It was time to get a move on.

John skipped shaving.  After a quick shower, he donned a black vendor t-shirt from some nameless trade show, pulled on trashed-but-comfortable jeans, and slipped his feet into his well-worn Docs. John was ready to roll, and was sort of looking forward to getting in and firing up “Enterprise”, his wall o' monitors that displayed the network. While getting ready, he'd figured out a solution to a design problem that he'd gone to sleep thinking about.  Now all he had to do was explain the cunning plan to his co-worker in an opposite corner of the continent. At least his co-worker had the courtesy to share a common timezone. A final glance in the mirror, a disapproving look at his receding hairline, and John emerged from his bedroom cocoon.

Stepping into the hallway, the first thing he noticed was the smell. The heavenly, intoxicating smell. Or “smells”, more accurately. Coffee. And something frying...was that bacon? Not that it mattered. Anything fried was good, had to be. And perhaps he detected an omelet? He paused, sniffing and cataloging, eyes closed in blissful appreciation. Those were most assuredly breakfast smells. Interest piqued, he walked down to the kitchen, where his wife greeted him.

“Good morning, sleepy! Did you know most humans go to bed before 4am?” she asked, cocking her head slightly sideways, smirking, hands on hips.

“Yes, but I'm not most humans, as you well know. I was working on your Dad's web site. I almost have the PHP code right for the new page – just a little more error-checking and it's there. And more to the point, are you cooking breakfast?”

“Mmm-hmm. I am. Are you heading to work?” she inquired, imitating his tone, a gentle note of amusement in her query.

“Uh, yes. That's what I do,” John said, brow furrowing as he looked over the breakfast spread. Coffee, indeed. Starbucks, even! And he was right about the bacon...a whole plate of it heaped up, fresh from the pan. And that was at the very least a three egg omelet...with mushrooms, onions, and cheese, just the way he liked it.

John cleared his throat. “Since you weigh in at about 100 pounds soaking wet, I can only assume you made this bountiful feast for me. And yet I'm already late for work. And...lest we overlook the elephant in the room...it's SNOWING. Is this some sort of torture test? Or is the mailman coming over, and you weren't expecting me to run so late?”

She walked over, placing her outstretched arms casually around his neck. She looked up at him, smirk still present.

“Silly man. You will stay and eat breakfast with your wife this morning. Even the Great And Mighty John can give his brain a rest on Christmas day.”

And with that, he smiled, turned off his BlackBerry, and sat down to eat.