Bathroom Monologue: Appearances in Toast

He didn’t look like Jesus to me. In fact, he looked like a girl. The long hair – I guess it suggests different things to different people. But it was my toast, and by the way the nooks and crannies were burned, I thought the face that appeared in it was too narrow to be a guy, let alone a god. The eyes drooped, and if there was a mouth then it was gaping. It was a sad face. A ghost face. So maybe not Jesus in my toast, just the Holy Ghost. I pretended to scarf it down, because if Mom knew it survived she would have built a shrine around it. I built it a nest of napkins and hid it behind the textbooks on my shelf. At night I’d bring my ghost toast out, to chat. I figured it was safe at night, when anyone who might see was unconscious, and ghosts like the night. It’s never haunted me and never gone moldy. I talk to it, ask it for bread’s opinions on things. It doesn’t answer often. Mostly its char face simply stares out at my wallpaper, mouth wide open. Kind of like it's hungry.