I came home, starved.

My mom was watching her online Chinese soap operas. She glanced up. "I found a loaf of bread on your bed." There was a pause as her gaze flickered away and blanked  briefly, as if she wanted to ask something but couldn't lest she discover some sordid, unholy hobby.

I chose my answer carefully. "Yeah."

She made a gesture at the dining table. "Well, I brought it down here." Where it belongs.

"I ... kinda had it up there for a reason."

I like bread. I like bread a lot. I like bread enough to eat it all day. I like bread to pay four dollars for a loaf and eat it all in under forty-eight hours, by myself.

My father, who is frugal, does not approve of this bread "habit." Last time I brought home something, I could hear him grumbling on the next floor up. I cannot abide listening to him gripe, but I couldn't give up my vice. I decided the next time I had bread, I would stash it in my room so he wouldn't see what dough I had thrown my dough at. Some kids hide drugs and porn; I hide bread.

Obviously, I had not tried very hard since my mom discovered it immediately. I had in fact not tried at all, because I didn't see why anyone would move it. I figured this: if a person leaves a loaf of bread on their bed, for whatever reason it may be, it can only follow logically that this was an intentional move. Nobody leaves bread on their bed accidentally or absent-mindedly.

It seemed stupid to leave it on the table now, so I took it with me.