“It’s funny, you and I eat differently,” Boyfriend says, popping another bite of eggs florentine in his mouth. We’re sitting at brunch, enjoying the unseasonal sunlight streaming through the window and letting coffee wash away the previous night’s vodka remnants.

Swallowing a bite of toast buried under layers of raspberry jam, I make a quizzical face. “What do you mean?”

He lifts his knife and gestures towards the toast in his hand. “You pick out a piece and cover it completely with jelly, then eat the parts you like and leave the crusts and burnt parts on your plate. I grab a big piece, butter the bite I want, eat it and hold onto the rest.” He waves the half-eaten bread in his hand as proof.

Silence ensues for a minute or two as we return to our food.

“That’s basically it, isn’t it,” I say at last, looking him in the eye.

“What?”

“Your toast. My toast. That’s our whole relationship right there. You’ll only butter the bite you want to eat right now, saving the rest for later in case you decide you don’t want it.”

“Huh? Wait a sec-”

“It’s true. Why commit to the whole piece of toast, when the waiter might bring a completely new basket?”

“Ok, fine. And you’ll smother the entire piece with jam at the outset, but still feel free to pick out and throw away the parts you don’t like.”

“Fair enough. But at least I commit to the whole piece of toast. At least it knows it’s going to get eaten.”

“Sure, and picked apart along the way.”

“Better than being pushed to the side of the plate to get soggy from all the egg yolk and grease then thrown away when a bigger piece comes along.”

“That depends on your point of view.”

“And the eater’s assumption that, no matter what, more bread will always be coming out of the oven.”