Toast

The apartment was quiet in comparison to the rush-hour streets outside. I stepped in over the balcony wall with my other leg, inched inside, then gently closed the door. The sheer curtains drifted softly. It smelled like toast, and I froze. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone inside. I heard a knife scraping butter onto bread. As long as they stayed occupied in the other room, I would be fine.

I slowly tip-toed over to the computer, thumb drive in hand. There were potted plants everywhere, and while they were frustrating to get around, they did help to deaden the noise of my footsteps. The sound of toast crunching in other room was almost comical, if only my errand had not been so dire.

I plugged in the drive, then waited for the process to complete. The fan on the computer started up and I choked back a scream of my eternal frustration with out-dated machines. The toast munching in the other room stopped. The curtains tossed fitfully in a hint of a breeze. More munching. I let out a slow, silent breath.

The LED on the thumb drive lit up: finished. I slide it out and dropped it into a pocket. Back to the window, slowly open the door, one foot over the edge of the balcony, then I heard a sound right behind me: someone chewing toast. I froze astride the wall, turning my head slowly to find a man in a nightgown standing right by the door.

“Pardon me,” he said, one hand politely covering his mouth as he finished a bite. He swallowed, then stepped forward and gave me a crisp shove.

I floated in slow motion, hearing all the sounds of the street, far, far below, then plummeted to it.