The metallic click of the toaster startles me. I wake up suddenly, thinking, It must be eight, he’s doing it again! Then I hear him opening the fridge, taking out the butter, putting it on the table, opening the drawer, rummaging among the cutlery, finding the knife and – scratch, scratch, scratch – buttering the toast. I can see his big, hairy hands doing the job, back and forth, back and forth – scratch, scratch. It’s a habit he has, every Sunday morning, preparing breakfast for me. He’s a man of habit. 

Then, he’ll put everything on a tray and bring it to the bedroom. Not that I dislike it. Who would complain about having breakfast in bed on Sunday morning? But after eating, I know what he’ll do: put the tray away, remove the sheet and start fondling me. I can already feel his big, hairy hands on my body, back and forth, back and forth… He’ll caress me until I’m melting like butter on warm toast. Who would complain about being touched like that, every Sunday morning? I would. 

Since everything’s so predictable about him, the charm has gone. It makes me feel as if we’re just objects in his routine, he and I. In this game of ours, he’s definitely the toaster, always on time. And me? Which object shall I be? The smeared bread, the cold fridge, or the knife?

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A story from the collection