One indulgence I continue to enjoy in solitude, despite being currently not just partnered, but quarantined with my co-inhabitant, is breakfast at my writing desk. It's something I've always delighted in. If I don't have bread, I even take the trouble to knead dough and make myself two chapattis, which I eat with bhurji, or an omelette, or with butter and chutney, or, if I have over-ripe bananas, I might make fritter-like pancakes.

I make some adrak chai, portion it into two mugs, one for him, one for me. I know he'll most likely have already consumed his bowl of cornflakes. He usually inhabits the living room through the day, out of respect for my workspace, which remains in our bedroom. I take my lovingly made breakfast, spread it on my writing desk, and I either read The New Yorker, or The Paris Review, or I watch something (at present, either Chef's Table or, if there's a new episode, then Mom). Maybe twice a week, we eat breakfast together. But usually, since I now eat lunch and dinner at the table with my partner, I derive even more pleasure from my solo breakfast dining.