Last Slice...

It must be depressing being the last piece of bread in a sliced loaf. I imagine it’s almost as bad as being the first tiny slice—a thin sliver of tan dough that tastes and looks like spongy leather. Only the last piece is worse. For while the first piece might feel self-conscious by its size or color—further exacerbated when someone finally unwraps the loaf and tries to skip the first slice in favor of the second, or if they’re especially picky the third—the last piece suffers alone. It suffers the fate of watching everyone else get picked in a timely manner and then being abandoned.
At first, I imagine, the last slice tries to come up with logical excuses for its abandonment or lack of being chosen, reasoning that maybe someone wanted to make a sandwich but they couldn’t with just the last slice. Or maybe, someone had called dibs on the last slice but then forgot—prohibiting anyone else from eating it for the sake of decency, inadvertently keeping the last slice in solitude.
But eventually, I guess, the last slice realizes this must not be the case. After the initial curious peeks into its yellow wrappings and then brusque tosses back into the fridge; after getting pushed further and further back, losing its honorary placement of front row middle shelf within hand’s reach, to being bent and squished in a dark corner where the small light bulb can’t reach, next to a crusty mustard case that’s probably passed its expiration date; after all that, it must realize it’s been rejected.
From there I think there are two plausible circumstances. The last slice might accept its fate as a loner and calmly accept the mold that arrives on its once pristine edges—viewing it as age spots with the belief that they act as proof of its existence, its resilience—with open pores. It does this while waiting patiently for the day when it will go to the tiny place in the sky where little French breads and little rye breads can join together to form a single loaf, where bread slices aren’t judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their yeast.
But, in the back of my mind, I think the last slice is probably more pessimistic. It has, after all, been slighted twice by the hands of fate. Well, by the hands of machines most likely as it was unlucky enough to be one of the two awkwardly cut end pieces in the beginning of its creation as uncooked dough. Then, in its early adolescence it’s slighted again by being placed in the bag first, forcing on it the title of last slice forevermore. This resentment probably leads to a spiral of depression for the last slice once its all alone. The crawling of the mold onto its skin later on only increases its dejection and acts as yet another confirmation that it is unworthy. To be even more dramatic, I picture its mortification to be complete with the arrival of a brand new loaf of bread in the refrigerator, a replacement added before the last slice is removed.
I hold the last slice in my palm, deeply sympathizing with the hand it’s been dealt in life, and with the gentlest caresses I’ve ever given garbage, I lightly place it in the trash.