Third Slice: Flash Muffin

The English muffin would not split.  I was holding it over the sink, my thumbs inside, when the phone rang.  I squinted across the kitchen at the Caller ID.  Dad’s cell.

I finished getting the muffin apart, dropped it in the toaster, and walked over to the phone.  I hit the return call button.

A woman’s voice.  “Is this the girl whose father drives a green pick up truck?”

“Yes,” I said, imagining his phone left on a gas pump.

“I drive an eighteen-wheeler,” she said.  “I think I just ran him off the road.”

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12 thoughts on “Third Slice: Flash Muffin

  1. Oh no! I sure hope you slice the rest of this story tomorrow! The way you left it hanging not only makes me wang to come back for more but also gives a tiny taste of what you must have been feeling at that moment. Yikes!

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