There comes a slight whirring noise as the machine blinks at the slice of toast in her hands.
She looks up at BR.
Then back down at the toast.
Then closes the panel in her chest and carefully places the piece of toast on the counter. Her motions with it are both ginger and caring, as if she is afraid that she might harm the bit of food. And as if the bit of food were an object of truly immeasurable worth.
She fixes her eyes on BR.
Then tilts her head to the side ever so slightly and says, "The art of what."