BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS The Peanut Butter Bagel

Lara Smith

There was only one way to make a peanut butter bagel: her way.

The girl had decided from a young age that, although she lacked cooking skills, making toast was her speciality. She sighed, clearing away the empty liquor bottles to make space for her creation. You needed New York Bakery’s bagels, whether they held any authenticity or not. The girl placed one in the toaster, adjusting it to the perfect setting as always. It was a routine. Every single morning, she would make the most exemplary bagel, coating it in a thick layer of crunchy peanut butter. She climbed onto the counter, avoiding the broken glass, as she cursed her height. The spread lay in the cabinet. The girl brought it down, layering it on the bagel.

The truth was that she hated peanut butter. She loathed it more than she loathed anything else in the world. But it wasn’t for her. It was for her father.

Taking a coffee in one hand, the girl precariously held the breakfast plate in the other. She shot a small smile at her mother who sat at the kitchen table, eyes red and sore. The girl placed the coffee down beside her, taking the empty pack of cigarettes instead and pocketing them. She hated the smell of smoke.

The girl knocked lightly on the door. Her father answered, his dishevelled appearance coming into view. She greeted him like always, their usual handshake, before placing the breakfast down onto his dresser, beside the delicate gold band, and took a seat on his bed.

The room lay bare, an open suitcase lying in the corner. He sat beside her, taking her hands in his. They remained like this as she studied his fingers, a strange tan line on one. Her father took a deep breath, pulling her close and leaving a kiss on her forehead. The muted scent of alcohol still lingered in the air as she pulled away, informing him that he could not let the peanut butter bagel grow cold.

It would be there when she got home.

The girl took her bag, pulling on her shoes as she pulled the front door closed behind her. She smiled slightly as the sight of the bus came into view.

It was late evening when she finally returned, the flickering lampposts the only source of light. The rain had soaked through her clothes, leaving her a shivering mess. Her mother and father both sat in the kitchen, giving her wary glances. She took this as a sign, pulling out her headphones and giving them a nod of acknowledgement. The girl turned the volume as high as it could go, letting the music drown them. Gently, she closed her bedroom door and pulled the bed covers right over her head. And this is how she stayed until sleep took over. Morning soon came as the girl placed the bagel in the toaster, still not quite awake, and spread on a layer of peanut butter. Her mother was nowhere to be seen but the girl knew she was still in her bedroom. She expected she would not come out soon. Broken photo frames covered the stairs, but carefully, the girl carried the perfect breakfast creation up to her father’s room.

She didn’t bother to knock: she knew better. The girl left the food on the dresser, taking in the room once more. The suitcase was gone; the bed untouched. A note was left on the covers, her name scrawled across the front. She took one last look, tears now falling, and smiled sadly. The girl had no need for pointless apologies. She had never liked goodbyes. She left the note like she left the peanut butter bagel: untouched.