Inlay

You unwrap your first toaster and place it on the counter in your first apartment, remembering how your mother—sometimes in that dingy pink bathrobe with her arms crossed and a cigarette dangling off her fingers, hurrying you through your breakfast to get you off to school before He came hangovering down the stairs, sometimes in that faded hoodie like an ill-fated prize fighter, rushing you to finish your homework before He got home with his nightly demands, sometimes with sunglasses on to cover up the makeup of His violence, slapping the table to be angry at the way you fiddled with your peas before He could slap you, always trying to lead you away, to jerk you from His spotlight, to take your place—once told you she always wanted one. Of all the things your family didn’t have, she just wanted a simple, plain, $10 toaster. How she just wanted the time and space—the luxury—to stand at the counter and watch the filaments inside it rise to a glowing red, so she could watch the toast burn black, if she wanted. --- Timothy C Goodwin has work included in Scaffold, Gooseberry Pie, Metastellar, HAD, Bottle Rocket, Flash Frog, Best Small Fictions 2025, and elsewhere. timothycgoodwin.com