Sarah was making breakfast for dinner because she’d decided that pancakes were an acceptable response to a difficult week.
I was responsible for the toast.
I forgot about it.
The smoke alarm began screaming.
Sarah rushed into the kitchen.
“Mark!”
“I’ve got it!”
“You’ve burned the toast!”
“It’s not burned. It’s aggressively toasted.”
She stared at the blackened slices.
“Did you put these in the toaster or a furnace?”
“I’m beginning to think this toaster has a personal problem with me.”
She started laughing.
I reached for the plate, accidentally knocked a spoon onto the floor, and stepped backward into the cupboard.
Sarah laughed harder.
“You’re a disaster!”
“I’m a man under pressure!”
“You were making toast!”
“Exactly. The pressure was enormous.”
She leaned against the counter, laughing so hard she had to wipe her eyes.
I looked at her.
Really looked at her.
Her hair had fallen loosely around her face. She was wearing an old sweater, and there was a little flour on her cheek.
