Mike stared at the toaster, its crimson light blinking like a taunt. The bread had been in there for seven minutes. He yanked it out, revealing a charcoal briquette. ‘Come on,’ he muttered, scraping it with a butter knife that promptly snapped in half. The silence of the kitchen was interrupted by a hiss—his coffee maker, now spewing steam like a geyser. He lunged to save the pot, but the handle was hot, and the coffee spilled onto his favorite shirt, a once-white oxford now stained with brown sludge. The door creaked. His roommate, Jake, peered in, holding a bag of donuts. ‘You okay?’ Mike nodded, gesturing to the shirt. Jake blinked. ‘That’s not a stain. That’s a modern art exhibit.’ Mike glared. ‘I was gonna wear this to the job interview.’ Jake dropped the donuts. ‘Oh no. The interview. The one where you said you’d ‘bring your A-game’?’ Mike groaned. Jake snorted, then bent to pick up the donuts. His hand brushed the coffee-stained shirt. ‘Hey—this fabric’s got character.’ Mike threw a spatula at him. It missed. Jake dodged, donuts flying. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said, dodging another missile. The toaster beeped. They stared at it. ‘Maybe,’ Mike said, ‘it’s just… tired.’ Jake nodded. ‘Yeah. Let’s give it a rest.’ They stood there, two men united by chaos, as the coffee continued to drip.
