“What’s for breakfast?” he asked. He strode into the kitchen fully dressed, briefcase in hand. The boys were at the counter eating what they always ate – cereal. Which he’d know if he ever paid the least bit of attention to anyone but himself.
“Belgian waffles with strawberries,” I answered.
“Ah, good,” he said. He grabbed the coffee I’d set out for him, gave me a peck on the cheek. “Have a good one,” he said, and he was gone.
Maybe I should increase the amount of slow acting poison I’m putting in his coffee. Faster is better.
Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “What’s for breakfast?”
First 50 Words - Prompts for Writing Practice 
There was a long queue outside the dining hall . It was Sunday . Holiday . People with long tresses had washed their hairs , left it open , and the tied a perfunctory rubber band at the end , giving their hairs a funny tied down balloon look . This way they would dodge the rule police , which said ” no open hair at the dining table ” .
There were church goers and movie show enthusiasts , who were grumbling for the slow making of dosas.
There was a large griddle in the mess , enough to make four dosas simultaneously . But the crepes were served hot . Off the griddle . They were crisp , paper thin , delicious and a weekly treat . No one wanted to miss . Hence the serpentine queues . Air redolent with the aroma of all the shampoos available in the CSD. Sunsilk , ponds, lux and tresemme . We were a walking ad for all these MNCs . And all the perfume brands , cheaply available in the local shop.
There was only one . Stella french parfum . These competed with the more appetising aromas of hot dosas and coconut chutney , asafoetida laden sambhar emanating from the kitchen . It was a battle of smells.
Even the bus conductors could tell us apart . From the coconut oil in our hairs , our looks , and our odours . Clumps of feminine
giggliness . We would dissolve into laughter at the slightest and silliest provocation . So , that Sunday , despite delays , and rumbling tummies , and delays in church and movie halls , there was lot of laughter in the air . Good natured ribbing too .
Then came the seniors . A breed apart . Licensed bullies . Having survived four years of this life , they were authorised to bully any junior into submission . Any junior they took a fancy to . Their noses in the air , they sallied in , and we parted , like the red sea . Giving them access to the first hottest dosa . First , precious , long awaited dosa . It was a moment of truth . A junior, confirmed movie fanatic , counted the number of seniors on her fingertips , made some quick mental calculation and softly let out a curse . Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible , she broke off the line , quietly slinking away .
It was not to be .
A booming voice arrested her progress . “Hey you ! What is for breakfast ?”