She tried to convince him:
wide slice Cool Touch™ toaster or not,
an entire loaf of bread
was too ambitious.

There's no dissuading the true believer,
no side-tracking the single minded and angry.
Continuing the morning's running battle
on this capricious new culinary front,
he wrestled portions of the loaf into the toaster
and stared her down, willing victory,
ignoring the growing bitterness of smoke.

She stood, averting eyes and smirking lips, as
he stalked across the chequered linoleum
plastered with a triumphant grin, even as
he relegated much of his victory
to the lawn by way of the window -
a charred offering to silence
the screaming ceiling smoke detector.

Able to contain herself no longer,
she fled, hand over face, to the living room
collapsing onto the couch,
(amid bland striped cushions) shuddering
and shaking with laughter.

He appeared in the doorway,
all awkward bend against straight frame,
then folded himself into the couch beside her,
his face sheepishly pushing out an apology
between her fits and gasps of laughter.

Their lips were warm -
hers wet with salt
his with the faint acrid taste
of apology and burnt bread.