Ficlets

I experienced every piece of toast I’ve ever had. Rye, wheat, garlic, dry, buttered, with jam. Not serialized, one memory at a time, but all at once, layered on top of each other, nestling against each other. In this kitchen, the bed-and-breakfast of our honeymoon, my grandparent’s kitchen while waiting for the bus. Homemade applebutter, with cinnamon, raspberry-ginger jam. Wait, I haven’t had raspberry-ginger jam … yet.

Ooof. My wife kicked me in the ribs, using her tennis shoe as insulation, in case I was hot.

“You still with us, ” she asked.

“Time is an illusion,” I replied.