He enters the kitchen. There is no need to turn on the light, just the glow of the moon. He sees the spectacular wake of the dinner: all the dirty dishes and glasses, greasy pots and pans, a giant ceramic tray in which his wife had served an exquisite dish. The previous evening they had left everything like this before going to bed, he because he was tired, she because he had drank a little too much.
He begins to wash the pots, to scrape the leftovers now encrusted on the plates, to rinse the cutlery. He fills and turns on the dishwasher. He puts everything in order, removes all traces of the celebration.
In the clean kitchen, he prepares a coffee, looks for bread. He wants to eat a slice: abroad, in the kitchen of his apartment, there was no toaster, he made a different breakfast. He finds a package full of bread, puts a slice in the toaster. But it does not enter, there is some obstacle inside the crack. Then he sees that there is already another slice in there, dry, hard, cold.
To whom does this forgotten slice, still intact, belong? The wife would not have left it there. She stopped eating this kind of bread, she says he has an intolerance. His suspicion comes, out of nowhere, for which he feels an even more terrifying fear than in the dream. He wonders if his wife has a lover, if the neglected slice belongs to him.
He sees his wife and another man in the kitchen, they are having breakfast the previous morning. It would have been their last carefree breakfast before he returned. He sees his wife in a dressing gown, serene, disheveled. She is spreading jam on a slice of bread for her lover. Then the scene melts, the doubt disappears. He knows that nothing has changed, and that the slice belongs to him, as well as the house, the wife he has known for more than twenty years. He had prepared it and then he had forgotten to eat it that morning two months ago, when he was about to leave. It happens often, he is a distracted man.