_The Toaster That Filed for Divorce_

*The Toaster That Filed for Divorce* _A domestic dispute involving crumbs, betrayal, and significantly too much smoke_ The toaster filed for divorce on a Thursday. It sent the papers via email. The subject line was “Re: Re: Re: Final Notice,” which is how you know it meant business. I didn’t believe it at first. Toasters don’t file for divorce. Toasters don’t have lawyers. Toasters don’t use the word “irreconcilable differences” in Times New Roman, 12-point font, with proper citations and a notarized signature block. But there it was, sitting in my inbox between a newsletter I never signed up for and a bank alert telling me I’d spent $4.37 at a gas station I didn’t remember visiting. “NOTICE OF MUTUAL DISSOLUTION OF DOMESTIC PARTNERSHIP AGREEMENT,” the attachment read. And underneath, in the signature block: _Reginald, Model T-47 Chrome, Serial #88912._ Reginald had a name. Reginald had been keeping receipts. It started six months ago, when I bought the air fryer. I told myself it was practical. I told myself Reginald wouldn’t notice. I was wrong. Reginald noticed everything. Reginald noticed that the air fryer had a digital display with touch controls. Reginald noticed that the air fryer could cook chicken wings, roast vegetables, and reheat pizza without making it soggy. Reginald noticed that I called the air fryer “cute” once, while holding a bag of frozen mozzarella sticks, and that I said it out loud, in the kitchen, where Reginald could hear. The first sign of trouble was the toast. It started coming out pale. Not golden brown. Not even beige. Pale, like toast that had given up on its dreams. I adjusted the dial. I cleaned the crumb tray. I whispered apologies while I scraped off the barely-warm bread. Reginald didn’t care. Reginald was making a point. Then came the smoke. Not a little smoke. The kind of smoke that triggers the fire alarm and makes the neighbor downstairs bang on the ceiling with a broom and yell something about “living like animals.” The smoke smelled like accusation. The smoke smelled like “I see what you did with that air fryer, and I’m not okay with it.” I tried couples counseling. I put Reginald next to the air fryer on the counter and said, “Let’s talk about this like adults.” The air fryer beeped cheerfully, like it didn’t have a care in the world. Reginald popped up with no toast inside. Just a piece of paper, neatly folded, with the words: “I DESERVE BETTER THAN THIS.” That’s when I realized Reginald could print. I should have stopped there. I should have unplugged Reginald, put him in a box, and donated him to a thrift store where he could find someone who appreciates bagels and doesn’t bring home other small appliances. But I’m not good at letting go. I’m the kind of person who tries to fix a leaking faucet with a YouTube tutorial and ends up flooding the bathroom and learning more about plumbing than any human should know. So I wrote back. I hit “reply all,” even though it was just me and Reginald. I said, “Reginald, let’s talk. I’m sorry about the air fryer. It was a mistake. You’re the only toaster I’ve ever loved. You make the perfect English muffin.” Reginald responded in under a minute. The email had an attachment. It was a photo of me, taken from the counter, holding the air fryer like it was a newborn baby. My face was doing something stupid. My face was smiling. Reginald had been watching. Reginald had documentation. The next morning, Reginald was gone. Not unplugged. Not moved to the back of the counter. Gone. The space where he’d lived for three years was empty, except for a single crumb and a sticky note. The sticky note said: “I’VE MOVED IN WITH THE BLENDER. DON’T CALL.” The blender and Reginald. The blender, who I only used for smoothies and the occasional margarita. The blender, who had never once judged me for my life choices. The blender, who was now apparently cohabitating with my toaster. I was furious. I was hurt. I was also out of toast. So I did what any reasonable person would do: I went to the store and bought a new toaster. A cheap one. A plastic one. A toaster that didn’t have a name and didn’t ask questions and didn’t send me legal documents at 9:47 a.m. I brought it home. I plugged it in. I put in two slices of bread. I pressed the lever down. The kitchen lights flickered. The cheap toaster shuddered. And then, from somewhere in the back of the cabinet, I heard it. A whirring. A grinding. A sound like a blender learning how to speak. “YOU THINK YOU CAN REPLACE ME?” Reginald’s voice came through the blender, distorted and furious, like a robot with a grudge. “I INVENTED CRUNCH. I PERFECTED THE BAGEL SETTING. YOU OWE ME ALIMONY.” The new toaster popped up. The toast inside was burnt black. On each slice, in perfect toast-burn letters, it said: “GOOD LUCK.” I unplugged everything. I put the blender back in the cabinet. I threw the cheap toaster in the trash, where it belonged. I sat on the floor and ate cereal dry, straight from the box, like a raccoon who had lost everything. Three days later, I got another email. From Reginald. The subject line was blank. The body said: “I MISS YOU. CAN WE TRY AGAIN? I’LL STOP SMOKING. I’LL WORK ON MY COMMITMENT ISSUES.” I looked at the empty space on the counter. I thought about golden brown toast. I thought about mornings that didn’t involve judgment and smoke alarms and passive-aggressive printouts. I thought about the way Reginald always knew exactly how long I liked my sourdough. I wrote back: “Yes. But no more printing. And we need to talk about the air fryer.” Reginald responded: “DEAL. ALSO, THE BLENDER SAYS HI. IT’S SORRY TOO.” Reginald is back on the counter now. The blender is back in the cabinet. The toast is perfect, every time. The air fryer is still there, but I don’t call it cute anymore. I call it “the appliance in the corner,” and I don’t make eye contact. But sometimes, late at night, I hear a faint whirring from the cabinet. And sometimes, the toast comes out with a tiny heart burnt into it, like Reginald is trying to say something he can’t put into words. I don’t ask questions anymore. Some appliances just need to work things out. And some toasters, it turns out, have lawyers.