The Toast Incident


It started with toast. A simple, innocent slice of toast. 

 Elliot had woken up first—rare, but not unheard of. Leah was still asleep, curled into a bundle of pillows, her breathing steady. 

Rusty was sprawled across the bed like a tiny, scruffy king, his paws twitching as he dreamed of chasing something—or being chased. 

 Leah hadn’t eaten much the day before. 

Nausea had hit her hard, leaving her curled up on the sofa, rejecting everything from soup to crackers with a look of betrayal. 

Elliot figured he’d try something simple. No strong smells, nothing too complex. 

Toast, lightly buttered. 

 The moment he stepped into the bedroom, she bolted upright. 

 "What is that smell?!" 

 Elliot froze. Smell? It was toast. 

It wasn’t burnt, wasn’t particularly strong, wasn’t anything. 

Leah gagged and pointed furiously toward the door. “Take it away! Take it away now!” 

 Rusty, excited by the sudden commotion, leapt off the bed and started barking as if toast had personally wronged him. 

 Elliot sighed, retreating to the kitchen, where he and the toast sat in mutual rejection. 

Rusty, now fully awake and realizing there was food involved, stared at him expectantly. 

"You don’t even like toast." Rusty blinked. "Fine." 

 A moment later, the toast was gone, and Rusty was licking crumbs from his lips. 

At least someone appreciated Elliot’s efforts.  Pregnancy, Elliot realized, had turned his home into a battlefield where even breakfast wasn’t safe.

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