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As if the rest of life couldn't possibly be hitting Trevor hard enough, now the toaster won't work.
Trevor curses as he bashes the toaster lightly against the counter. He just wants to make Guido waffles.
A puff of crumbs falls out of a sliding tray he had never noticed on the bottom of the toaster before when it flies off after a rougher slam.
Everything always has to have so many steps. Nothing is easy in this life.
Typical.
Trevor casts the toaster aside momentarily, looking out the window to the city.
Harlem is busy as ever. Millions of people move about, on their way to live their lives that have yet to be ended.
The city is full of color, motion, and Trevor can practically hear the conversation on the street.
He turns away from the window and draws the curtain.
The house feels stiffer than it ever had in memory. The only time that even comes close is when they first toured it together, empty and lifeless.
Trevor supposes it is much the same now.
Distantly, he remembers that Guido is counting on him for breakfast, and returns to the petulant toaster.
Ray had always handled the machines when they acted up. He had a way with them. Trevor mentally bit back a joke about them being able to sense his mechanical arm and thinking he was one of them.
No point in thinking it with no one to laugh at it.
Trevor clumsily managed to put the crumb tray back on and tried again to push the waffles down. They sprang right back up, almost mockingly.
He was a moment away from throwing the whole toaster in anger when it occurred to him that he shouldn't have been able to lift it in the air as far as he did.
He followed the cord to the end.
It was unplugged. The whole time.
Can't do your job if you're-
Trevor felt something shatter. He set the unharmed toaster down again and leaned forward against the counter, head sinking onto his hands as he felt pinpricks of tears forming.
No one was there to see him shake with quiet sobs.