#11 Buttered Toast



The voice on the other end of the telephone was amused. “Are you sure you don’t want to know the reason why?” it asked.

Vic shrugged, though they couldn’t see him, and took a sip of orange juice. “Doesn’t matter to me.”

“You’re not curious?”

Did it matter who they are? Did it matter what they’d done?

“Not in the least,” he said.

Toast popped up, golden brown. Vic grabbed it and threw the slices onto a small plate.

“You’ll have to make her trust you,” the voice said. “She has to let you close to her.  Very close–she won’t divulge information otherwise. Can you do that?”

Vic nodded. “You wouldn’t be talking to me if you didn’t think I could.” Each piece of toast now had a large pad of butter on top. He watched it melt. Why wouldn’t they just get to the point?

“You’re prepared to live a lie?”

Vic had had enough. “I butter my toast with lies,” he said.

The line clicked and went dead. His fax machine in the other room began printing the job information.

But first, breakfast.

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