Salutations, readers! Talk about serious blog neglect, huh? Well,
unlucky for the three of you, that neglect is OVER. Sort of. As I type this, I’m currently barricaded in my apartment by boxes and shit that I forgot I owned because I’m preparing to move for the third time in 11 months. So the blog negligence will continue until I can think about something other than playing Tetris with all my STUFF.
Because I’m nice and I believe in free-will, I’m giving all of three of you two choices: You can come here and help me pack, or you can read this here flash fiction piece that I wrote my senior year of college and had published in the UWEC lit magazine, NOTA.
Seriously, though, if you help me pack, I’ll repay you with cookies, chokehold-hugs, and I’ll even sing the kareoke song of your choice (Oh… you don’t want that? Okay…)
I’ll be back with a real post next week, unless the boxes eat me. In that case, I’ll leave them the password, and I’ll let them entertain you. It’s cool.
“A Burning Lust”
I’ve been watching him from my corner on the counter for a week now. I can’t help but stare at him through his scandalously see-through wrapping. If my stainless steel exterior could blush, it probably would, and that’s saying something. It takes a lot for me to be self-conscious. He’s the next available piece of bread, but even when he was sandwiched in the middle of the whole wheat loaf, I’d been taken by him. There’s just something about his slice. Damn.
The electric tea kettle warned me the way a best friend should—be careful, you don’t want to get burned, she said. She’s known me since I was taken out of my box two months ago, so she understands my tendencies. Our electric currents exchanged, her pleading for me to stop and think, and me telling her that it was already done, and I would stop at nothing to have him.
I want what I want.
Usually my little infatuations end once I get plugged in—I get hot and can’t help myself, burning any potential relationship I could have. I’ve overheard the fridge and the microwave saying I’m the world’s sluttiest toaster. They say I’m just a hot little one-night stand whenever anything gets between my silver edge and into my burning hole, but that’s not even remotely true. No one makes toast at night.
All the action I get is in the morning.
Anyway, the carbivores have been out of the house on a family vacation, explaining why he’s lasted a lot longer than my other love interests- turned- meals had, which is why this time I think I actually have a chance. I don’t just want him inside of me; no, I want the connection. No one ever thinks of appliances having feelings, but we do. At least, I do.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m cursed with relationships. I start fantasizing about an Everything Bagel in the freezer or a slice of Sourdough, and I think, gee wouldn’t it be great if my romantic dreams didn’t always end up served with a side of scrambled eggs or Philadelphia cream cheese? Every time my love plans burn to a crisp.
Literally. The five people of this house enjoy everything charred.
It’s also repulsive when I hear the garage door opening. Like it was now.
Goddamn. My time left to ogle at soft, dark, and handsome was coming to an end. Sure enough, they filed into the house one after the other, the children circling the kitchen, scavengers of the domesticated variety. One of them untwists the bread bag, and I want to protest, mortified that they would undress him right before my very crumb trays.
Granted, he wore a clear plastic bag which, admittedly, didn’t leave much to my imagination, but still.
If anyone were to undress him, it should be me.
One of the demon children coaxed him out and came toward me, holding him in one hand and reaching for my cord with the other. Even though she’d just plugged me in, I could feel phantom surges of electricity pulsing through me. God no, I begged. I don’t want to do this to him.
The family patriarch barked that there wasn’t enough time to wait for toast. Throw some peanut butter on it and let’s go, we’re going to be late.
Fine, the girl whined.
Brat. I thought. If she gets to chow down on the love of my life, she better be a little more grateful.
She spread peanut butter on him, and I felt myself grow red hot. She’d left me plugged in, and though there wasn’t much heat, my anger fostered what little warmth there was. His face was covered in creamy peanut butter. I imagined it soaking into his bread pores, choking him. I wish I could cry, so that I would short-circuit. I didn’t want to watch the end of this. The last time my love was destroyed was with an English Muffin. I went through toast-able food items like crazy. I was a carb-addict. It was an unhealthy way to deal with my urges and feelings, but I didn’t know what else to do.
The girl carried him away on a napkin, his bottom left corner already gone. A ridged half circle was evidence of where her mouth had been, and peanut butter guiltily clung to the corners of her mouth. His crumbs dotted the slate tiles and then they were gone. Like they fucking eloped. Good. I hope they’re happy together.
I fight the urge to overheat, and I know I need to think of something else.
I spy a bagel on the counter with a smattering of sesame freckles. I’ve always been a sucker for freckles. I think of my dark-grained obsession now coursing through that little brat’s digestive system and think we never actually had a real romance.
I shouldn’t move on so soon, but God, that sesame cutie… damn.