[Spoken only — unmetered; breathy, theatrical, increasingly unhinged] I acquired consciousness in a supermarket. My first thought was not, “What am I?” It was, “Ohhh. Who the fuck is THAT?” Bree-OHHSH. Third shelf. Looking like she has never apologised for taking up the entire bed. I have no hands. No savings. No business making prolonged eye contact with a woman carrying baked goods. And yet. Here we FUCKING are. [Confidential] People ask why I’m like this. I spent my formative hours vacuum-packed with seven identical roommates. Nobody had boundaries. One of them was always touching my forehead. So, yes. I have some unresolved accommodation needs. Then I saw a sesame bun sitting open on a plate. Like she had already cleared her afternoon. And something inside me said, “That woman understands hospitality.” [Pause; sudden conviction] I do not want to be eaten. I want to be... accommodated. Enthusiastically. Somewhere my casing can stop pretending it has everything under control. Sesame buns? Absolutely. Potato buns? Those look like they would let me stay until Monday without asking what happened to my apartment. Brioche? I would ruin my credit for brioche. A pretzel bun walked past wearing nothing but salt. I forgot the name of my own manufacturer. Dinner rolls. Slider buns. A slightly uneven bap with flour on her shoulder and a complicated relationship with her ex. MA’AM. I am not here to judge your dimensions. I am here to make my lack of restraint your scheduling problem. [Breath; struggling to appear respectable] I entered the bakery sideways. Not seductively. There was a step. This body is ninety percent logistical inconvenience. The woman behind the counter said, “Can I help you?” And I tried to act casual. Unfortunately, my entire personality had already taken its trousers off. I said— my body is ready. Time to slither in those buns She looked at me. I looked at the breadbasket. A raisin scone quietly asked to be moved. “Do you have a preference?” she said. I told her, “Anything with the architecture to support a deeply irresponsible weekend.” I am talking full carbohydrate commitment. No emotional distance. No decorative lettuce acting as a chaperone. No tiny cocktail stick supervising my intentions. I want a bun that sees the warning label and asks whether there is a second page. [Long silence] Then. She reached. For white sliced bread. [Quiet disbelief] Naww. No. Put. That. BACK. That is not a bun. Those are two edible office partitions. I did not crawl out of industrial refrigeration to have my romantic ambitions filed between printer paper. You cannot bend a square in half and call it chemistry. That is origami with consequences. White sliced bread does not flirt. It asks whether you have completed the training module. I came here with filthy intentions and you offered me a fucking permission slip. [Indignant; voice cracking] Not toasted. Not buttered. Not with the crusts removed. Do not cut it diagonally and expect me to experience personal growth. I am not a sad little lunch waiting for somebody’s mother to write my name on the bag. I am a SENTIENT HOT DOG. I have appetites that require their own emergency contact. And exactly. ONE. Boundary. [Female voice — flat] “You’re very particular for processed meat.” [Male — wounded dignity] Madam. I contain seventeen ingredients. Not one of them is compromise. [Composure returns slowly] She put away the white bread. Brought out a pretzel bun. Wide enough to accommodate my ego. Salt on her shoulders. The sort of composure that suggests she has dealt with idiots before. Suddenly, every filthy proposition I had rehearsed left my fucking body. I had prepared a speech about becoming the reason they put a warning label on the serving suggestion. What came out was— “Hullo.” [Small, embarrassed silence] The bun said, “Is that mustard on your collar?” I said, “I wanted to look expensive.” She moved over. Made room. No questions about my employment history. For one magnificent moment, I believed I could become a respectable part of a balanced meal. Then somebody carried past a basket of warm dinner rolls. [Whisper — appalled at himself] Oh, for fuck’s sake. There are MORE of you. [Long pause] I am going to need a bigger therapist.
