by The Plot Spoon
The problem started with my toaster developing opinions.
It began subtly. One morning, I pressed the lever down, and instead of popping up in the usual polite way, it ejected the toast with what I can only describe as attitude. It landed on the counter, slightly burnt on one side, perfectly golden on the other, like it was trying to make a point.
I assumed it was a fluke.
The toaster did not.
By day three, it had developed a rhythm. Light toast for good moods. Extra crispy for mornings when I was late. Once, it refused to toast anything at all until I apologized out loud for yesterday’s burned bagel.
I did.
It worked.
That was the part that concerned me most.
I tried ignoring it, which only made things worse. The toaster began producing toast with shapes in them. Tiny patterns that looked suspiciously like smiley faces, then question marks, then what I can only assume was judgment.
I considered replacing it. But every time I opened the cupboard, it would somehow already be facing me.
Watching.
One evening, I came home to find it on the kitchen table.
Unplugged.
Sitting there.
Next to it was a piece of toast.
Perfectly unburned.
On it, in faint darker lines, were three words:
We need to talk.
I moved out the next day.
The toaster stayed.
I still think about it sometimes. Mostly in bakeries. Or near anything with a plug. And occasionally, when I make toast somewhere else, it comes out just a little too perfect. Like it’s trying not to remind me of anything.
About the Author
The Plot Spoon is a quirky writer who finds humor in the strange, the ordinary, and the mildly suspicious behavior of everyday objects.