Somewhere in the darkest reaches of a refrigerator, mustard plots its comeback.
"Did you miss me?" it whispers to unsuspecting salad dressings.
Silent screams echo from within plastic bottles, but the ketchup just rolls its eyes.
On that fateful eve, the laundry room echoed with melodic howls.
"Sock it to me!" sang the mismatched pair, desperate for redemption.
Yet, the cats yawned; silent witnesses to the fabric opera unfolding.
In the heat of breakfast, one slice stood up to the buttering.
"I will rise," it toasted defiantly, seeking skies beyond the grill.
The butter, unmoved, melted in silent support or perhaps betrayal.