Home bound

I stumble on an imaginary rock on the way home. 89.6. I fucked it up. I break into a run because the music just keeps getting louder. Turn the corner at a big black building and swing open the door - they're here. The audience is all lined up in rows sitting cross cross arms neatly folded, smiles wide. Stage lights pop on. They're in my house. How did they get in my house? The pianist waits in the corner and I sigh and give him the cue. The music starts up and I dance to my kitchen, open the fridge and pull out the bread. See the trick here ladies and gentlemen is to ruin your food so you aren't tempted to eat it. I pop two pieces in the toaster and the audience gasps in horror. I dance back to the fridge and examine the butter. The audience mumbles. I put it back. I spin in fast circles as my bread is toasted and stop when it pops out. Burnt. Perfect. The audience observes me smell the bread and then chuck it. They all clap for me. All is well. I smile. The act is going good.