The sun came through the window and sat down at the breakfast table, melting all the butter and staining the tablecloth. I tried to ignore him, but the sun cleared his throat and began to redden my sleepy eyelids. “Good morning, sun,” I said finally.
“It is good,” he observed, “and you’re welcome for that.”
By this point the carpet and curtains in the breakfast nook were beginning to singe and sputter into flame. “You’re going to burn the place down,” I said. “You already melted the butter.”
“Do you realize what an honor this is?” the sun asked. “Do you have any idea how many people worship me?”
“What do you want?” The tablecloth burst into flame.
“A story,” the sun said. “I want to hear a story.”
“Can I get back with you?” The curtains ignited and burned quickly upward to blacken the walls and ceiling.
“It doesn’t have to be true,” the sun continued. “But I have to be the main character.”
“Ok. Fine. I’ll get it to you later.”
“What’s it going to be about?”
“I don’t know.” The sun just sat there, whistling and waiting. I jumped up and ran to the kitchen for the fire extinguisher. “Could you please leave? You’re burning down my house!”
“And the title will be…?”
“The Sun Comes to Breakfast! That’s what I’ll call it. Now, go!” I screamed, spraying the extinguisher wildly around the room.
He floated toward the window to leave. “That’s a terrible title,” he said, and then he was gone.
“Asshole,” I said, ending the story.
Hello, friends. I hope you’re well.