My R180 HighSpeed toaster clicked into place displaying two pieces of New Haven ciabatta toast perfectly browned on each side. They laid flat on my Bernardaud small dinner plate. From the silverware drawer, I drew out my Sabre Paris butter knife. In two short cuts, I scraped Minerva Dairy Amish butter delicately and evenly to each piece only on a single side. With each bite, the toast scraps the roof of my mouth and cascades down my throat. When I finished, I reached for my Audi RS 5 car keys, locked the door behind me, and set off to work.
I turned down the next freeway and something caught my eye just out of view of my peripheral. Quickly looking down and then back again to the road, I brush at whatever is caught on my Rhone Commuter dress shirt. I use my thumb and index finger to pick it from the delicate fibers and hold it closer to my eye for inspection. What is that?
I put the passenger to my lips and down onto my tongue: it’s a crumb from my toast. I readjust my grip on the steering wheel, but it slips from my palm. I turn my pal towards me and rub my fingers together to feel the slickness of them. I lift my forefingers to my nose and inhale: butter. What the hell? I rub them again, but the butter continues to push out from my pores.
Distracted, I’m too late to notice the car beside me merge into my lane. I try swerving out of the way but my fingers slip from the butter and I clip the corner of the car’s back wheel. My butter dips and spins into oncoming toast.
Toast.
Toast.
I hear the hot box make a high pitched noise. Suddenly, I spring jump up stopping short only exposing my top half. I hear movement from somewhere. I am not alone.
