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Toast

     Mark watched Samantha across the breakfast table and
waited for his coffee to cool. There had been an article in the
paper explaining the links between throat cancer and hot
drinks, after reading it he'd had a particular reluctance to gulp
his coffee back, straight from the cafetiere. Sam was pushing
the cuticle down from her nails with her knife with casual skill.
Resting her elbows on the pine surface she breathed lightly,
yawning once in a while. The silence was comfortable. The
crumpled shirt she wore came down to her knees, wrapping
her pale, downy skin like crepe paper enclosing faulty
porcelain.
     "Toast?" he asked.
     She nodded delicately, economy of movement in the
morning. The bread slotted into the  toaster with a click and
he tweaked the dial, hoping that the machine would produce
something that wasn't warm bread or charcoal this time.

     It is the consummate flexibility of toast, coupled with
its simple but wonderful taste, which makes the incompetence
of toasters all the more unbearable. For toast can form the
platform from which to build a quick, delicious meal. A tin of
baked beans, or some scrambled eggs have been used for years
to make meals crossing classes, royals and robbers alike enjoy
this delicacy. But the time of day in which the medium is
unrivalled is breakfast. Why would anyone sit eating sloppy
muesli or chomping on cereal (the last retreat of the dope
smoker) when they might chew a while on marvellous toast,
slathered in honey, jam, or just plain butter.

     "You always get up this early?" she cringed, cracked
voice splitting the air.
     "Ever since I was little I've got up early, it was the
way I was brought up I suppose. My mum gets up early, my
grandma used to too. When I was at middle school I used to
get up at 6 every morning and watch the Flintstones. If I got
up any earlier than that the TV just had teletext on loop. The
days news spelt out in 100 words or less. But although I liked
the Flintstones the main reason I got up so early was that I
couldn't shake off the feeling that I'd wasted the best part of
the day if I was in bed."
     "The best part of the day? If it wasn't for work you
wouldn't normally see me up before lunchtime. I hope you
realise how privileged you are, to see me up before 10 at the
weekend."
     The corners of Mark's mouth twitched in a half smile
and then subsided. His face was settling down and like his
father his cheeks were pouching like Droopy dog.
     "You can put the radio on if you like."
     "Oh, I hate morning radio!" she squinted, "There must
be something unnatural about people who can sound so cheery
and lively and have been up before sunrise. I sometimes
wonder if it's not all prerecorded or whether the people in
question are zombies called up from their graves by sinister
suits at the BBC. You wouldn't have to pay  em as much."
she giggled.
     "From the way they look I think that the zombie
hypothesis is the most likely."

     The back of Mark's throat felt dry, there was an
unpleasant taste on his tongue from the night before. He had
been drinking whiskey, double shots were on offer at the local
pub. An experimental sip of coffee. Letting the fluid cool
down in mouth, tightening of throat as he tried to swallow,
involuntary since he'd read that article. The shirt was
gathering neatly in her lap, veiny legs poked out from the
cloth. A mosaic in blue and red fluid,  life study
no.34003957563789 etc. etc.' how many living sculptures
raised and buried from the soil? She crossed her legs
delicately, skin rubbing against skin. The toast popped.

     "It's a bit overdone."
     "I'll scrape, it isn't a problem." taking the toast in her
steady fingers, she stroked along the blackened side and left
sticky black powder on her plate.
     "Would you pass me the apricot jam, next to the
pepper," as he glanced around disorientated, "right in front of
you, idiot!"
     "Sorry." he apologised.

     A lorry bleeped in reverse through the double glazing,
it was delivering it's cargo of milk and bread to the SPAR
shop on the corner. The pulsing noise bleated endlessly, a
parody of the latest chart music.

     "Was last night alright?" he asked, casually anxious.
     "Wonderful dear boy, wonderful. Sometimes it just
feels wonderful to be out of the house."

     There was a groaning noise from the corner as the
lorry choked and the engine was killed. Shouts of palette
numbers were exchanged before the quiet returned.

     The layer of apricot jam she'd spread was so thin he
wondered if she could taste its flavour. Each slice had been cut
into handy triangles which she raised to her mouth with two
fingers. The butter had been spread right to the very edge of
each piece, excess butter scraped back into the yellow plastic
pot. She was a psychologists dream.
     "I see why you like this time of day." her voice muffled
with masticated food, "the air seems fresher and cleaner. Not
as heavy with the day's dirt."
     "Now you just sound like a facial cleanser advert."
     "Sod off Mark. I was just trying to make conversation.
It's nice, but getting up at this time every day would just kill
me. I reckon there has to be something wrong with you, I
wouldn't be able to move if I got the same amount of sleep as
you do."

     There was a clatter at the front door as the post
arrived. A wide selection of multicoloured junk mail littered
the mat.  Congratulations - you have been selected to take
part in our prize draw - just send in the application form for 52
issues of Wood Carvers weekly along with a cheque for
twenty pounds to. . .'. Samantha raked her fingers through her
hair, scratching her scalp.

     There was a shuffling noise from the other side of the
kitchen door. It opened slightly and then with a quick push,
Brian stumbled in.
     "Hello dearest. May I go in the shower now?"
     "Sleep well?" Mark asked.
     "Yes," he said to Sam, "I slept like a baby, thanks
Mark."
     Samantha left the room.
     "Yeah," he continued, "that's such a comfy bed, I
doubt an earthquake would had woken me."
     Mark smiled and poured him a coffee.
     "Toast?" he asked.


©1998 Mark Sexton