Page 25 of Puck Wild


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"At nine in the morning? On a Sunday?" Jake leaned against the counter, bowl balanced precariously in one hand while he gestured with a spoon full of Rice Krispies. "That's either admirably dedicated or sad."

"It's called productivity."

"It's called you need a hobby that doesn't involve color-coding."

I typed aggressively into the spreadsheet:Kitchen conversation should be limited to essential communications.

"Where's the cinnamon?" Jake asked, opening three different cabinet doors in rapid succession.

"Spice rack. Alphabetized."

"Of course it is." Another cabinet door slammed. "Are we out of oat milk, or is this some kind of elaborate prank where you've hidden it behind the baking soda?"

"We're not out of oat milk."

"Then where—oh. Found it. Hidden behind the baking soda." Jake pulled out the carton and grinned at me. "You're a puzzle, Spreadsheet. A very organized, slightly passive-aggressive puzzle."

I added another line:Refrigerator organization follows logical proximity patterns, not random placement preferences.

Jake continued to ramble, something about how the puffed rice tasted better when it was slightly stale. He leaned back against the counter and gestured too enthusiastically with his free hand.

The bowl slipped.

It hit the tile floor with a sharp crack, and milk, ceramic chips, and rice cereal suddenly scattered across half the kitchen.

Jake stared down at the mess, spoon still in his hand.

"Shit."

My entire body tensed. Every muscle locked up.

"That bowl was vintage."

My words were flat, controlled. It was a tone that meant I was three seconds away from losing my shit entirely.

Jake looked up from the wreckage, milk dripping off his bare foot. "It was chipped already! You hate chips!"

"That doesn't mean I want it turned into ceramic shrapnel."

"It's not like I threw it at the wall, Evan. Gravity happens. Physics. You know, that thing where objects fall when you don't hold onto them properly?"

I stood up, chair scraping against the floor. "Maybe if you weren't flailing around like—"

"Like what? Like a human being who uses his hands when he talks?" Jake grabbed a dish towel and started dabbing at the milk spreading across the tiles. "Sorry, I don't communicate exclusively through spreadsheet formulas and passive-aggressive labeling."

"My labeling system prevents this kind of chaos."

"Your labeling system is micro-controlling my breakfast cereal."

I stared at him. "Micro-controlling your—that's not even a real phrase."

"Neither is intended consumption timeline, but that didn't stop you from putting it on a Post-it note." Jake straightened up, towel in hand, eyes bright with manic energy that meant he was just getting started. "Face it, Spreadsheet. You want to organize me into a neat little column where I can't disrupt your perfect kitchen ecosystem."

Heat crawled up my neck. "You're a menace with an expiration date."

"That's poetic. You rehearse that while labeling your Tupperware?"

"Column F: Insults to deploy during chaotic events."