Page 128 of Glitched Play

The second is when the rice somehow fuses itself to the bottom of the saucepan like industrial-strength glue.

"I followed the directions," I mutter at the pot.

The pot remains unconvinced.

Flour dusts the kitchen island. Measuring cups cover every available surface. A cracked egg drips slowly down the cabinet door because apparently I missed the bowl entirely.

I glance at the recipe again.

The app on my phone made it look easy. They snapped their fingers and it was done. I think the caption left out a few details.

Determined not to surrender, I try the chicken. The pan hisses violently. Five minutes later it looks less like dinner and more like evidence from a fire investigation.

"Oh, come on!" I poke it with a spatula and the spatula bends.

"Seriously?" I throw both hands into the air.

Somewhere between salvaging the vegetables and attempting whatever the recipe means by "reduce the sauce," I manage to splatter tomato sauce onto the backsplash... the refrigerator... and, judging by the suspicious red dot near the ceiling...

possibly the ceiling.

I stop moving.

Slowly...

Very slowly...

I turn in a circle.

The kitchen looks like a tornado developed a passion for Italian food.

Flour coats the countertops.

Dirty bowls are stacked in the sink.

Wooden spoons rest in places wooden spoons should never rest.

A trail of shredded parmesan leads from the island to the stove like breadcrumbs left by an exceptionally confused baker.

My shoulders sag.

"Oh no."

I press both palms against the counter and close my eyes.

Witt notices everything.

Every crooked picture frame.

Every coffee mug out of place.

Every pen sitting three inches from where it belongs.

I look around the kitchen one more time.

He's going to flip his freaking lid.

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