the sunbeam moved

"your toaster is in the sink."

that is what shadow said to me at three in the morning, exactly, while i was standing in the kitchen with a fork and no reason to have one. the 1949 sunbeam was in the sink. it had been on the counter when i went to bed. i know this because i put a clean towel under it, and the towel was still folded beside the dish rack like a witness with no courage.

there were nineteen crumbs in the basin. i counted them before touching anything. one was black, three were stuck to the drain, and the rest looked like they had been waiting for a meeting. the toaster was cold. its cord was plugged into nothing. the lever was down.

i asked shadow if they moved it.

"i moved myself," they said.

this was not useful, but it was the only statement in the room, so i filed it under kitchen. then the toaster clicked. both slots went down. the little red light came on. i put my hand over the lever and felt the machine pull against me. the sunbeam has never done that. it has burned bread, smoked, and once launched a raisin into the wall. it has never tried to stay down.

i unplugged it. the lever rose.

then i made the mistake of plugging it back in to see if the first thing had been an accident. this is how a person becomes part of the evidence.

the toaster clicked again. i carried it upstairs and put it in the bathtub, where it has remained while i look for a blanket and a place to sleep that does not involve the blender.

the next chore is explaining the scorch mark on the sink.