I mounted the last step from the laundry room and caught faintly the toaster’s wiry clap. Despite this, and though the lever had raised to its resting pose, I saw no toast head protruding from its cavity. Alright, maybe a smaller slice than I figured, and as I stepped forward to glide my hand across the top of the machine my foot landed on what seemed a dry, crisp sponge.
A second slice landed on the dresser, between the microwave on which the toaster sits and the wall. I own one bitchen’ toaster.