I’m Toast

Flash Fiction by Arthur Davis

I’m an honorable man of some character. I take responsibility for my actions and support those who do likewise.

Standing at my toaster at 7:25 on this cold Saturday morning in October, I knew it was my fault. I broke the bread.

“What’s wrong?” Angela said, coming up behind me and wrapping her arms around my chest. “Oh.”

“Yeah. You see it?”

She loosened her grip. “How did that happen?”

“I’m not sure. I picked a slice from the wrapper and it broke.”

“Has to be four or five inches long. And about an inch down and parallel from the top of the slice.”

“It’s not going to toast evenly.”

“What are you going to do?”

The slice of Dave’s 21 grain bread was halfway through its toasting cycle. Having long ago been the Toasting Critic for The New York Times, I was painfully aware that I should have examined the slice more carefully before putting it in the toaster.

My juice had been poured into a glass and, with a napkin, taken into my study. All that was left to do was add a skim of salted butter and layer of crunchy almond butter, cut off a dozen slices of my banana, grab another paper towel and a fork, and hunker down at my desk before greeting the day.

I met Angela at the Times. She knew about me, my professional profile, and never asked why I quit the gray lady after a dozen years with no trace or what I was doing for the past two years.

At thirty-eight, Angela was a decade younger. Pretty, smart, and without guile or game.

*****

“Fuck it,” I said and pulled open the glass door of the toaster, slipped in four fingers, and dropped it on to the plate off to the side on the kitchen counter.

“I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“The location of the plate?”

“I’ve never seen anyone put a plate to the left or right of a toaster.”

Drs. Jason Rasnonson at Quebec University and ergonomist Gale Lungard at Britain’s famous Center for Applied Ergonomics wrote a paper on plate location during the toasting cycle. Surprisingly simple, it revealed that over two years, even with a double-blind minimum sample, those who pulled toast from a toaster directly toward themselves, where a plate was set, were 26.2% more likely to get burned by the open, flat glass window of the toaster. In fact, injury was rare if you simply set a plate at least eight to ten inches to either side from where the glass window opened.

I took the toast, wound and all, and brought it to the kitchen counter and applied the two butters then cut a dozen slices of banana and let them fall haphazardly over the toast.

Angela knew the drill and grabbed a paper towel and fork and followed me into my study.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m here for you if you want.”

I couldn’t bring myself to say I “loved” her, but after only two months there was little doubt in my heart.

I set the plate on my desk and went about cutting banana slices that fell onto the toast. The banana was just ripe and small enough that I could organize a pattern of four slices across and three down.

I pressed down on each of the twelve slices, making sure they were stuck to the combination of salted butter and Whole Foods organic crunchy almond butter.

Angela snuggled up to my back and planted a kiss on the back of my neck. “You don’t even see it.”

I see it. I will always see it. I wasn’t attentive. Can you imagine what would have happened if I was a surgeon? I might well have killed a patient. I could be accused of being intoxicated, taking drugs, and even if vindicated, I would never be able to cure the unspoken distrust of my colleagues.

“I have to get beyond this,” I said, picking up the bread and offering a corner to Angela. A little gesture that defined our devotion. She took a bite then moved it toward my mouth. We ate silently for a while.

“I’m okay. Really.”

“As long as I’ve known you, you’ve been hard on yourself. What happened with the crack in the bread could have happened to anyone, even at your skill level. Were you distracted? You know, the bread could have been cracked before you got to it.”

“I’ll get over it,” I said, unsure of my words.

“What was in your mind right before you took the slice of bread from the bag? Do you remember?”

I couldn’t recall. I’m not absent-minded but was struggling with the simple request.

“We were talking about your presentation at the American Bread Association, the paper you’re working on, and our vacation. Does that help?”

“Strange, I don’t remember any of it.”

Surprised. “That’s not like you at all.”

No. But I can’t recall. “My brain had turned to mush,” I said and gave Angela the last bite.

“What’s my name?”

“Elizabeth Lillian Hapsburg. The last of the Hapsburg dynasty.” The House of Hapsburg, also known as the House of Austria, was one of the most prominent and important dynasties in European history.

“I’m trying to help and you’re joking around.”

She was so pretty. I hadn’t told her that in weeks. We had a connection I never had with any other woman. Then it hit me. “I remember.”

“Now, I don’t trust you,” she said and pulled away. “You’re going to make up something ridiculous.”

“Not really.”

“So?”

“I was thinking about how much I love you.”

BIO: Arthur Davis is a retired management consultant who has been quoted in The New York Times and in Crain’s New York Business, taught at The New School and interviewed on New York TV News Channel 1. He was featured in a collection, nominated for a Pushcart Prize, received the 2018 Write Well Award for excellence in short fiction and, twice nominated, received Honorable Mention in The Best American Mystery Stories 2017. Additional background at www.TalesofOurTime.com, the Poets & Writers Directory, and Amazon Author Central.