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His hunger panged him, from a heated day of labor. His reward, two slices of bread from his starving cupboard. A momentous occasion such as finishing work, was not to be taken lightly. His feast was to be baked over the warming coals of a toaster's intestines. This made him feel more refined as if he were baking a cake instead of merely munching down a typical bread and water meal. He approached the shiny silver toaster, bread in hand. It was not a clean toaster. It had water spots from numerous spills, spots of food and crumbs stuck to the side of it, like pieces of shrapnel that escaped from various dishes and clung to it's new home. He looked down the dark slots of the toaster and briefly investigated the burnt black crumbs that lined the toaster floor. A stomach growled, now becoming impatient at the observation of the process and craving only immediate satiation. He dropped the pair of cakes into their pre-fit abyss to warm properly, and pulled the handle to ignite the heat. He levitated his face above the silver box to feel the red glow of the fiery tendrils. Impatiently, he waited. His mind tempted him to make coffee while waiting for his stiffened bread. He slapped himself across the face. No! No, he would wait for the toast so he could pull it from it's holsters the exact second of ejection and burn his fingers which would toss them to the counter, where the butter and jam waited to blanket their victim in an appetizing garb before it had even a second to cool down. He stared at the shiny box, viewing his reflection this way so he had a large nose, and that way so his eyeball appeared to protrude from the outside of his head. His eyes climbed the toaster's frame, noticing the layers of dust accumulated atop the tiny oven. He slid his fingers quickly across, clearing the dirt from the surface, then shook them violently to cool after touching the heated bridge. He grew impatient. He stared scowling at he toaster, and the toaster silently replied as if saying, "Hey, you don't rush a toaster." The phone rang, breaking the man's every thought of toast. He turned and leapt to answer it's beckoning. "Hello? Yes. Really? No! It can't be! I'll be there as fast as I can!" At this point the toaster was invisible. The man jumped through the kitchen, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair as he went. He went to race down the staircase, when his foot remembered the baseball that he caught at the Braves game last weekend. He continued his descent of the stairs, now with back, shoulder, and face. He stopped when he reached the bottom. He did not move. The now forgotten toast emerged from it's slots. Everything was quiet. The toaster stirred. |