"Fire "

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.