Soul Journal

The toast is warm and the butter melts quickly as I spread it slowly with the knife. I grasp an avocado and slice through it, rotating from the fruit and cutting from tip to tip. The halves part to reveal the soft ripe centre, a dim shade of chartreuse skirted by a rich sea green.

I cut the flesh into a mesh of tall cubes, and scoop them out with a spoon. The texture is buttery smooth and it spreads as a thick cream on to the toast. A crackling of pepper and a little salt and breakfast is ready.

I lick some salt of my finger, and carry the tray, along with a steaming pot of tea, into his room.