My husband decides he wants a divorce. I move in with a friend. I am mad because he will not let me take the toaster. It is fire engine red and cost less than 10 dollars. The friend I move in with has matching creamy green appliances. Her toast is never burnt.
My husband says, please, shut up, he'll buy me whatever goddamn toaster I want. Ok, I say, buy me a toaster, fire engine red, four-years-old.
I'm not asking for much. We also have a kettle, oven mitts, a fancy mixer and miniature ceramic pantone coffee mugs in red and in blue. He can have them all.
I just want the toaster—the one he used every morning to make me toast, speckled with yellow, unmelted butter and slightly burnt.