Toast

I have a piece of toast downstairs waiting for me. I can hear it calling my name.

Shannon, it says. I’m getting cold and lonely. Why did you abandon me? Perfectly-sized dollops of butter and jam; the time you spent carefully spreading them on top of my exquisitely brownéd exterior so that each bite would be equal and delicious; all for naught. I thought we had a connection. I thought you cared. Oh, Shannon, wherefore art thou?

I’m sorry, toast. I had a baby to cuddle, and as much as I love eating your delicious toasty goodness, when my sicky baby cries, he is more important than toast.

I still love you, though. And don’t worry. I’ll revive you, just wait and see. Or maybe I’ll find a way to enjoy you cold, like fridge pizza.

Aw, man. Fridge pizza sounds way better than toast.

Fin