Burnt Toast
Coming
down uncarpeted stairs to the landing,
turning
right into a lights-off kitchen
on
an early winter evening—similar
to
walking down a street at dusk,
an
indecisive time of neither sun nor moon.
Her
favorite time of day, not his.
The
oven, like the light, is off; vision limited,
scents
too faint for human sensitivities
and
the only sound beyond stucco walls, a wind.
A
car passes, tires audibly intruding.
He
punches down the toaster lever
despite
no bread in the toaster,
knowing
crumbs at the bottom will fill
the
kitchen with the comfortable aroma
of
burnt bread. The lever makes a clack
as
it is plunged to the dark toast setting
and
a similar clack, unique to toasters,
when
the automatic timer expires
and
up pops virtual toast.
Two
clacks and burned bread crumbs.
The
kitchen has a pulse.
Merry
Christmas.
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