He was doing it again. Scraping the wrong side of the toast with butter. And jam. Is there a wrong side to toast? She didn’t care. She believed that there was, and that’s all that mattered. The scraping continued to echo through the apartment. Fuck this. All this anger, over toast.
But it wasn’t just the toast. It’s never just toast. It’s the unkempt fingernails that remove any hope of evening desire. It’s the shoulder-length hair that he refuses to tie up, much less clean up. It’s the Monday through Sunday TV dinners. Unless there was toast. Maybe it is the toast.
Whatever.
It’s insanity. Even if it wasn’t, it was the safest assumption. 2 years of scraped butter jam toast. It’s not too late to get out.
But what if it’s just the toast. Who’s to say the next person won’t have a different type of bread to deal with. She sighed and continued their morning ritual. With heavy eyebags, a backpack, and packed lunch (TV dinner leftovers), she nodded him goodbye and drove to campus.
American Love Letters 