The Fake Kind

Kristo

When my eyes opened the next morning, I could hear music playing somewhere, a voice singing along to it, soft and breathy like it was coming from the dream I’d woken from. I yawned, ran my fingers through my hair, and got to my feet to find the source of it.

When I stepped out of the bedroom, I laid eyes at once on where it was coming from. Amaya was in the kitchen cooking up something that smelled good and swinging her hips back and forth to some song on the radio. She wasn’t dressed for work yet, wearing a silk nightgown we’d picked up the day before, one that showed off her generous thighs and her shapely waist. She glanced over her shoulder at me and flashed me a smile.

“Good morning,” she greeted me, and I made my way tentatively over to join her.

“What’s going on?” I asked. I felt as though I might still be dreaming or woken up in some alternate reality because there was no way I had come to and found this woman, scantily clad, dancing and cooking breakfast for me in my k