Feet clattered the hardwood floor. We wandered into the kitchen scouring for a cold metal bowl. Hushing cabinet slams and distant whispers, trying not to wake anyone up. I felt the fridge paint my back with cold strokes as Emma grabbed out the ingredients. Shuffling back to the bathroom, we carried the items. Next to the towel rod and a lonely toothbrush, we whisked together the eggs. The whisk scratched at the bowl as we giggled and joked. Sugar coated our hands as it slipped through our fingers. Just two pinches, not too much. The tiny beads hit the floor and soon stuck to our feet leaving a trail wherever we went. Our arms were gummy from mixing the batter, which was now splattered next to the half-empty soap bottle. We danced and spun in the makeshift kitchen without a care in the world. Alex was posted next to the tub munching on some sugary cereal, whispering yesterday’s secrets so we wouldn’t wake the others. Making handshakes we swore we would never forget. 

Now ripping the bread into mini soft pillows. One at a time we laid them in the batter. The cold liquid clothed our arms and crept into every wrinkle and dimple on our hands. Waving the soggy pillows in the air we splattered the extra batter on the mirror before spacing the toast on the tray. We snuck out of our makeshift kitchen to the stove, where the nob clicked and tapped as we laughed at inside jokes. Placing each piece of bread on the scorching skillet, crackling filled our ears. The bubbles of browning butter turned from clear to caramel but soon faded gray.

Smoke filled the air like rumors filled new ears. The laughs and tight-knit bond once there blew away within the gray and black smog. The soft pillows turned to black coals. Laughs and giggles to cries and pain. Hushed secrets were now loud and known. The handshakes, sworn to be remembered forever, appeared more like a reminder of what once was. And as we tried to scrape the ash and soot of the toast down the sink, only deep scars did it leave. The damage was done and charred like the friendship the toast remained. Plated on a rough paper towel the toast was served.  The splattered batter still dried under nails. The memories are still imprinted in our brains. Forever a reminder of all of the good times that soon turned into a cruel painful dance. The french toast, that was never meant to last.