I have made a scrambled egg folded over a slice of Muenster cheese and a piece of toast. I've buttered the toast and cut it into small rectangles, as I've also cut about half of the omelet. I set my plate down, along with a mug of Trader Joe's orange peach mango juice on the coffee table. I have a regular fork and a tiny one with a colorful plastic handle. I sit down on the couch to eat.
She has been dancing in the living room: long dreamy loops, dipping her little shoulders with each rotation. She is trilling a sweet, tuneless song to accompany herself. The sound of the plate making contact with the surface of the coffee table interrupts her reverie. She stops mid-loop with a soft "Whooo" and with tiny staccato steps, her bare feet hardly leaving the floor, sidles over to the coffee table. She inspects my plate. Her head is cocked to one side, her lips pursed, her eyelashes lowered. She knows this renders me virtually helpless to resist her power. "Mmmmm", She says without looking at me directly. She taps her chest to sign, "Help". "Me turn", She says. I hand her the little fork. She eats the entire omelet. She sucks the butter off every piece of toast. "Mmmmmm", She says, with deep satisfaction.