Can I blame my sister?
She is the one who insisted I have a toaster oven, when I was perfectly happy with a toaster.
Every apartment needs a toaster oven.
"Bagels," she said, "and what about little pizzas?"
So I sit here crying at Denny's rubbing my fingers back and forth, blaming her.
I stuck my hand in the toaster oven to grab my already buttered bagel and I started to cry.
Woozy even.
The heat on the back of my hand.
I didn't burn it.
But the heat on the back of my hand.
Had it really been a year since the fire?
Chastity slept.
I had one more cigarette on the porch and then to bed.
And then nothing.
Less then nothing.
The house was gone, she was gone and I was empty.
Now in a Denny's more empty because of the fatty comatose crowd, crying.
Wishing for less memory.
Wishing for more time.
