The screwdriver slipped again, embedding itself in the oak floor like a disgruntled insect. Jordan stared at the half-assembled bookshelf, its legs splayed like a drunk kangaroo. ‘Just one more screw,’ they muttered, though the instructions clearly stated, ‘Do not use the red screws for the vertical supports.’
A knock echoed through the apartment. ‘You okay in there?’ came their roommate’s voice, punctuated by a snort. Jordan slammed the screwdriver into the floor, sending a shower of wood chips onto the rug. ‘I’m fine!’ they barked, then paused. The shelf wobbled. ‘Okay, maybe not.’
They yanked the red screw from the pile, its plastic head gleaming like a dare. The moment it clicked into place, the shelf lurched sideways, knocking over a lamp that had never liked Jordan to begin with. The bulb shattered. Silence. Then, a low groan from the hallway. ‘Is that… a scream?’
Jordan crouched, hands trembling, as the shelf tilted further. ‘You’re supposed to be stable,’ they hissed at it. The shelf responded by collapsing inward, pinning Jordan’s left foot beneath a rogue shelf bracket. ‘Oh come on!’ they yelled, yanking free as the remaining pieces rained down like poorly timed confetti.
By the time the fire department arrived, the living room resembled a junkyard. Jordan, covered in sawdust and existential dread, watched as the firefighter tossed a dented toolbox into the trash. ‘Next time,’ the man said, ‘just call a pro.’
Jordan nodded, then winced as a rogue screw pinged off the wall. ‘Yeah,’ they said. ‘Next time.’
