Every morning, Ruth makes Idgie coffee.
She grinds the beans by hand and brews the cup, then brushes her long hair out on the porch, knowing exactly how long it will take for the pot to perk and how long Idgie would sleep in after a long night out.
There’s a sweet comfort to routine. Ruth loves it. She’s been making breakfast the same way for the past fifty years for Idgie before heading out to the café, and she doesn’t see a reason to change the routine now. Just because she’s ninety doesn’t mean she can’t have honey on her pancakes or cream in her coffee.
Bacon’s fryin by the time Idgie stumbles downstairs – lively but stiff-boned, her eyes bright with the hope of hot food. Ruth cracks an egg as Idgie wraps an arm around her waist. She doesn’t feel nearly ninety at all when Idgie touches her like that, though it takes longer for her bones to melt into the other woman’s soft body.
As they kiss, coffee drips into the pot.