Frank grabbed the toaster out of my hand.
“Hey! I’ve got bread in there!”
“I don’t care.” He fingered the dangling cord. “I’ve got more to worry about than burnt bread.”
“I know, And I’m sorry, but, I can’t really help you. I’ve almost gone through my quota.”
Frank opened my trash can, tipped the toaster and shook my bread slices into the bin.
“Hey,” he said, dropping the toaster in after the bread. “You brought this upon yourself, my friend.”
I gave up.
“Fine.” I said. “I will give you all the air you need.”
He smiled. “I thank you.”
He grabbed the long hose and attached it to his breathing tank, then kicked on the compressor.
I watched his needle rise and my needle fall.
“Thanks again, buddy.” He wiped some condensation off his faceplate, stuck it over his head and took in a few deep breaths. Then he winked at me, slipped into the airlock and exited into the haze.
Stupid global warming.
Thanks for the writing prompt, @alphabete