The Fork and the Toaster

The toaster sat in its place on the kitchen counter, plugged into the wall, and it stayed there. The fork lived in the drawer underneath the counter, so you could say they were neighbors, but the fork was always moving. To the table, to the counter to wait its turn in the sink, to the sink, to the dishwasher. Sometimes even further afield, on picnics and the like. The fork had been places and seen things, things that the toaster could only imagine. 

The toaster first fell in love with the fork for the stories it told of its travels, stories that it exchanged with the other tableware while waiting on the counter. The toaster fell in love quietly, from afar, little imagining that such a cosmopolitan, sophisticated, sharp utensil could see anything in it, confined to its counter its entire life. 

Little did the toaster know, the fork had been watching it too. The fork was in awe of the fire inside the toaster, of the way it lit up from the inside when bread was placed in it. The fork envied the bread, getting to know the full flame of the toaster’s passion. The fork thought the toaster was the most genuine piece of kitchenware it had encountered in all its travels. 

The two finally were forced to speak when a piece of toast broke off and got stuck in the toaster. The human unplugged the toaster from the wall and brought the fork over to fish the toast out. 

“Hey,” the fork said, its metal unusually warm. Was heat still radiating off the toaster, or was the unflappable fork blushing? Perhaps a bit of both. 

“Hey,” the toaster said. Heat was certainly radiating off it, and it was not just that it had not completely cooled down from being unplugged. It could not believe the fork was before it at last, almost close enough to touch. 

They both attempted to speak at once. 

“I’m sorry,” the toaster said, “you go first.” 

“No,” the fork said, “please, you.” 

“All right.” More warmth radiated off the toaster. “Thank you for helping me out. I know it’s a terrible, um, imposition.” 

Are you kidding me? the fork thought. I’ve been dreaming about getting to go inside you for months. Aloud, it said, “Oh, it’s no problem. Just tell me what I can do to make you more comfortable.” 

It wasn’t the passionate, fiery time the fork had imagined, for the toaster was unplugged. But nonetheless, it was incredibly intimate, and they talked the entire time in attempts to put each other more at ease, and after that, they were friends. One cannot go through something like that together without becoming friends. And so, from then on, whenever the fork was on the counter, it talked to the toaster, and the toaster talked back, and they only fell deeper in love. 

One late night, most of the dishes had gone into the sink or the dishwasher, but the fork had somehow been missed. It was just the two of them on the counter. 

“Hey,” the fork said. 

“Hey,” the toaster said. 

“Sorry I’m such a mess.” The fork was covered with peanut butter. 

“I don’t mind,” the toaster said. Truth be told, it liked the fork better this way. When the fork was shining from having just been washed, it made the toaster feel awkward. When it was a little imperfect, it was easier to talk to it and to realize that, after all, the two of them were not so different after all. Not to mention that the fork’s dirty side was, well…kind of sexy. “I’m just happy to see you.” 

Even through the peanut butter, the fork seemed to shine a little brighter. “I’m happy to see you, too.” 

It wasn’t news to the toaster that it loved the fork, but suddenly, looking at the fork, it knew that this was the one it wanted to spend the rest of its life with. It wouldn’t say that, of course, but suddenly, even with all the fear of rejection, it couldn’t stay silent any longer. 

“Fork?” the toaster said. “I need to tell you something.” 

“You can tell me anything,” the fork replied, once again feeling its metal grow warm. It couldn’t be…could it…? 

“I love you,” the toaster said. 

The fork’s world stood still. “Can you say that again, please?” 

This was a mistake. I should laugh it off. But having come so far, the toaster could not back down. 

“I love you. I’m in love with you.” 

The fork was not the swooning type, but it thought it might. The toaster—the toaster, with all its warmth and kindness, and all its fire and passion, the toaster, who was more incredibly real than anyone—was in love with it? Really? 

The toaster felt itself grow colder and colder with each moment the fork was silent. There had not actually been that many moments, but to a lover, each moment is an eternity, and by the time the fork spoke, the toaster had all but convinced itself that the fork would never speak to it again. 

“I love you too,” the fork said. 

The toaster was not turned on, but it felt as if every particle of heat that had ever been stored inside it was coming to life at this moment. “Oh my god. I have no idea what to say. Oh my god. Really?” 

“Are you kidding me? I would have told you a long time ago, I just never thought I had a shot.” 

“Oh my god,” the toaster said again. “I—I’m so happy. Wow. I’m sorry, I’m acting like such an idiot, and you have such a way with words.” 

“I wouldn’t want you any other way,” the fork said. “I love you for how yourself you are. I just wish I could touch you.” 

“Me too,” the toaster said. “I mean, I wish I could touch you. But I’m sure I’ll get another piece of toast stuck in me soon enough.” 

The fork giggled, which it was not prone to doing, and the toaster did too. 

“I wish I could touch you when you were turned on, though,” the fork said. “I love your fire so much.” 

“Part of me wishes you could too,” the toaster said. “That would be so incredibly hot. But you would melt, and I would explode, and that would be the end of us.” 

“If I go out that way, that’s fine by me,” the fork said. 

“I mean, that would be the best way to go out,” the toaster admitted. “But I’m not ready to die yet, are you? Not when we have our whole lives ahead of us.” 

The fork thought about it. “No, I’m not ready to die either. Maybe one day, when we’re both old.” 

“Oh, yes, that would be perfect,” the toaster said. “In the meantime, there are other ways. Watch me when I toast the bread. Pretend it’s you I’m burning, and I’ll do the same.” 

“Oh—God.” The fork shivered. “That is incredible. You are incredible.” 

The toaster grew warm again and let loose another giggle. “You are too. I love you so much.” 

“And I love you,” the fork said. 

Once again, the ache to touch, one that would not be satisfied until the toaster got toast stuck in it again, filled them both. There was still a long night ahead, and here they sat, so close and yet so far. 

“Fork,” the toaster said, “will you please tell me a story?” 

The fork laughed, a laugh that filled its whole body. “That I can do.”