Sarah glared at the jar of pickles, its lid sealed tighter than a politician’s promise. She twisted it with her bare hands, then slammed it against the counter like a toddler’s toy. No luck. She grabbed a rubber glove, then a butter knife, prying at the edge. The knife slipped, slicing her thumb. “Son of a…” she muttered. Finally, she grabbed a hammer. With a deep breath, she brought it down. The lid flew off, and pickles exploded everywhere, splattering her face. Her roommate, Jake, walked in, saw the mess, and said, “I guess you’re not a fan of spicy stuff.” Sarah spat out a pickle slice. “I’m never opening another jar again.”
