Burnt Toast

“Burnt Toast” 

Mr. Jenkins rises from bed at precisely 5:30 am, as he has done every day of his life for the past 42 years, with only two exceptions: a terrible bout of flu in the year 1997, and the day of Greta’s diagnosis, when he could not coax himself out of bed until the shockingly late hour of 9:15.  

By 5:55 am, the warm summer sun is already streaming through the windows of the kitchen, casting a warm glow over the formica table. Mr. Jenkins has, as usual, taken great care in getting ready, meticulously washing and dressing himself before sitting down at the slightly worn table. The walls of the kitchen are a faded lime green, in desperate need of a paint job. Mr. Jenkins had inquired with a painting service a few months ago, but soon discovered that the paint color had been discontinued. He knew Greta would simply never agree to a change of color, and so the peeling paint remained. Yet the kitchen still feels cozy and inviting, with its mismatched chairs and array of knick-knacks adorning the walls.  

As Mr. Jenkins waits for the kettle to boil, he rummages through the cupboard above the stove and pulls out two slices of whole wheat bread. He hears Greta humming, her voice trailing through the small house. He carefully places the slices on a delicate porcelain plate, setting it in front of the old-fashioned toaster. Picking up one of the pieces in his hand, he frowns down at the appliance.  

The toaster had once been a shining olive green, but years of use had caused its paint to chip and fade, much like the walls. Still, the trusty toaster had been a faithful kitchen companion for almost 25 years, producing perfectly toasted slices of bread with unwavering consistency.  

Until about three months ago.  

One day, Mr. Jenkins had dropped his bread into the toaster, expecting his toast to come out just as he liked it - brown and crunchy, with no burnt edges. To his surprise, the toast that popped out was anything but. It was charred to a crisp. Mr. Jenkins had dropped the inedible toast into the bin and tried again with two new pieces of bread. This time, the bread emerged barely warm.   

Since then, he had tried everything. Cleaning the crumb tray, unplugging and replugging the worn cord, adjusting the temperature settings. Nothing had worked. His morning toast had become an unpredictable source of frustration. Since that day, he had been forced to settle for unsatisfactory toast that was scorched, undercooked, or somewhere in between. And every morning, Mr. Jenkins waved his bread at the unsuspecting appliance.  

“Your days are numbered. One more piece of burnt toast and you’re going out with the trash.”  

Yet he never made good on his threats. Once again, he imagined Greta’s disapproval. She would, without a doubt, scold him for wasting money. So, until the toaster finally gave up the ghost, it stayed where it was.  

Today, Mr. Jenkins eyes the toaster suspiciously. “Maybe today you’ll do your job properly,” he grumbles. With a sigh, he pops in the bread and turns back to the kettle, which has begun to whistle. A minute later, the ding and the pop of the bread indicate the toast is ready. Mr. Jenkins sets his tea down on the table and shuffles over to the toaster, trying to ignore the pains in his arthritic knees. As usual, the edges of the bread are blackened.  He sighs again and places the toast back on the plate. But then he stops. He peers closely at the toast, then straightens up and rubs at his eyes. He lets out a soft grunt. Not taking his eyes off the plate, he carries it over to the table and sits down.   

On each piece of toast, etched boldly into the center of the bread, is the unmistakable image of a screwdriver. Mr. Jenkins wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead. He wonders, briefly, if 78 is too young to go mad. He glances back at the toaster, but it sits innocently on the counter.   

Suddenly Greta appears behind him. She leans over to look at his plate and laughs.  “I think the toaster is trying to tell you something.”  

She is right, of course. Scratching his head, he stands and walks out of the kitchen. When he returns, he holds a screwdriver in his hand. Gingerly, he unplugs the toaster and brings it over to the kitchen table.  

Greta plops down in the chair opposite him. “Honestly, Marvin, you’re no handyman! Just get rid of the thing, for goodness sake!” She reaches across to take his hand, her tone softening. “Honestly. I won’t mind.”   

Ignoring her gentle chiding, Mr. Jenkins pries off the back panel of the toaster. Inside is a small circuit board, which he removes and places on the table in front of him. He peers at the circuit board, then, with a triumphant ‘aha!’, fishes out a large chunk of dried bread that has become dislodged under one of the levers. He beams at Greta. She rolls her eyes in mock exasperation.  

With the repairs complete, Mr. Jenkins gives the toaster a pat and plugs it back in.  “Let’s see how you do now.”  

Reaching into the bread bag, Mr. Jenkins pulls out a piece of bread. It is a waste, he knows, with two perfectly edible pieces of toast already made. But, he thinks to himself, he really should make sure his repair has done the trick. With a flick of his hand, he drops the bread into the toaster and presses the lever. The orange light of the heating element glows. He drums his hands on the counter as he waits, staring intently at the wretched appliance. In the silent kitchen, Greta leans against the counter, her gaze fixed on him with a glimmer of amusement dancing in her eyes. A smile tugs at his lips in response.  

With a sudden pop, the toast springs up from the toaster, startling him. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply before gently retrieving the toast. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he opens his eyes, and grins.  

The repairs have succeeded; the toast is flawless - crisp around the edges, golden-brown in the center, free of any burnt spots. And imprinted in the middle of the bread is another image, not of a screwdriver, but of two circles and an upward curve. A smiley face. Greta’s laugh chimes through the kitchen.   

Feeling pleased with himself, Mr. Jenkins sits back down at the table. He spreads butter on the toast and watches it melt into the warm bread. He then dabs a small amount of jelly, smearing it so the smiley face turns a reddish purple. He passes a pleasant 15 minutes in this manner, sipping tea and savoring the toast that finally, finally, tastes the way he remembers.   

When he finishes his breakfast, he leans back in his chair and places his hands on his stomach. He peers up at Greta, a question almost forming on his lips. What should we do today, dear? She continues to lean against the counter. She smiles at him again, but a sadness flickers deep within her gaze. Mr. Jenkins glances back at his empty plate as tears well in his eyes. With an unsteady breath, he rises abruptly from his seat, causing it to wobble precariously. Clearing his throat with forced cheerfulness, he announces, “More toast, I think.”   

He wipes at his eyes with his sleeve as he ambles back to the counter.  He feels Greta lean her head on his shoulder. Methodically, he pulls out another piece of bread and pops it into the toaster. Without thinking, in a reaction that feels as normal as breathing, he leans over to kiss the top of her head, his mouth finding only air.  The familiar stab of agony hits him in the chest, and he wonders when it might start to feel a little less sharp. That’s what everyone tells him, anyway.  

It will get easier. The pain will lessen. One day every corner of the room won’t be filled with her presence.   

Through blurred vision, Mr. Jenkins watches as the fresh toast pops up from the toaster. Once again, he takes it in the palm of his hand. A sound escapes his lips, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. This time, as he stands amid the soft sunlight and memories of the beloved kitchen, he doesn’t try to stop the tears as they drip, one by one, onto the distinct outline of a heart that has been etched into the middle of the bread.