Burnt Toast

I looked into the kitchen that was lit only by the stove light. The smell of burnt toast lingered in the air. The window was closed. I was supposed to make him breakfast before work. The toast was burnt and cold. The blue countertops no longer caught the light. I take the toast out of the toaster and set it on the pink plate that had awaited its warmth this morning. I debate throwing it out, staring at the garbage bin at the end of the counters. Maybe if I left it, time would resume in the morning where we left off. Maybe if I just head to bed and close my eyes, the toast wouldn't have burnt when I woke up. Maybe if I got up earlier to make him a real breakfast the toast wouldn't have had the chance to burn. I poke at the toast, crumbs sticking to my fingertip. The silence stings. My lone presence rings throughout the house. The floorboards dance only with me. I sit at the table. The chair scrapes the floor, louder than I thought possible. I run my hand along the light pink lace fabric ends of the tablecloth staring at the empty seat across from me. I never realized how big the table was before. The ends of the table that used to be almost too small for us are now vast, almost too much to bear. My mind winces. I get up and open the fridge in hopes of a late night snack. Bacon, grape juice, string cheese and leftovers. I pick up the string cheese for a moment before putting it back. I never understood how he could eat these all the time. I slam the fridge shut and a sigh leaves my mouth.

I look around and memories flood my mind. I wipe the counters but the rag falls from my hands. I pick it up and go over the same spot in case I’m missing something. My chest tightens. I stop wiping the counter and catch my breath. Two weeks ago we argued about him being late again. He barely ate the waffles I prepared for him before rushing out the door. I remember standing by the stove, spatula still in my hand, watching him shrug on his jacket. I told him he couldn’t keep doing this. Always leaving in such a rush, promising to slow down, promising to be on time. He smiled like he always did, soft and apologetic, like he thought smiling could smooth the moment over. He said he didn’t mean to, that mornings just slipped away from him. I wanted to say more, wanted to ask him to stay just five minutes longer, to sit back down while the waffles were still warm. But the words stayed lodged in my chest. The door closed behind him with a quiet click that felt heavier than it should have. I remember scraping the untouched waffle into the trash and telling myself it didn’t matter, that there would be other mornings to get it right. Only to come home with breakfast sandwiches for us and a warm yet tired smile on his face. A month before that we both set our alarms 20 minutes earlier than usual and yet time escaped from us again. Just yesterday we both woke up with plenty of time, in fact some to spare. We ate and chatted before he calmly walked out the door and headed to work. I noticed he had left his sweater and texted him before he went too far down the road. He had time to turn back into our driveway as I handed him his sweater and kissed him goodbye. I turn around and can see traces of him. His green work shirt still left on the arm of the couch. His reading light is on, left on the coffee-table. He always forgets to turn it off. I glance around, the fridge humming goes on and for a second I can see him leaning against the counter, humming along. The taps of his fingers on the coffee mug play in my head. The neighbor's dog barks outside for a moment. I feel my eyelids getting heavy. I take my phone from my back pocket and check, no notifications. I sigh and open Instagram, I lean on the wall and scroll a few videos. I shut off my phone and wonder if I'll be able to fall asleep. Instead I take a seat in his spot on the couch.

For a moment, I can hear the wind blowing on the chimes in the backyard. My eyes feel dry as I watch the clock. Has time always moved this slowly? I sit on the couch for what seems like hours that I can’t grasp. I can hear the faint passing of cars every now and then and for a moment I picture him pulling into the driveway any second. Instead the cars pass by. Each set of headlights peeking through the windows makes my heart lift before it sinks again. I count them without meaning to—one, two, three—each one belonging to someone else returning home to a kitchen that still feels whole. I imagine what I would say if he walked through the door right now. I rehearse it quietly in my head, something casual, something that wouldn’t betray how tightly my chest has been holding onto hope. Maybe I’d ask if he was hungry. Maybe I’d pretend I hadn’t been waiting. The clock keeps ticking, indifferent, and the house answers me with nothing but its steady hum. I realize then that I am waiting not for his footsteps, but for permission to stop waiting at all.

I look at the tea pot by the stove. It would take such long strides to get there so instead, I sit. I open my eyes, not realizing they had ever closed.

Soft morning light peeks in through the window. The countertops still don’t shine. My phone alarm goes off as I jump. I turn off the alarm and finally get up, walking towards the kitchen. I crack open the window and turn off the stove light. I stare at the toast still on the pink plate. I throw the toast away and decide to make a new batch. I pop it in the toaster, lowering the timer. I slowly press start on the coffee maker. The small sounds from the coffee maker begin to hum as if a new day. Will mornings continue to be this way? The toast pops up, toasted but not charred.