Sunday Morning

by Brett Eaton

Sunlight pierced the kitchen window and punctuated Caroline's little yelps. She was making bacon naked, which is fun to say out loud, and the grease from the skillet splattered her more sensitive parts. I was torn between worry about scarring such a beautiful form and transfixed by the bouncing flesh that seemed to move of its own accord, as if delighted by this rare taste of freedom. Caroline's golden hair teased the freckles on her left shoulder as she turned her head to catch me watching from the open refrigerator. "We're out of eggs," I reported. "Better make more bacon."


Brett Eaton is full of big ideas lacking attention.