Wherein a word or phrase can be the start of something fun and wonderful.
Some are simply stand-alone ficlets or drabbles. Some link up with published stories. Some end up previews for things yet to come.
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All you wanted was some juice, but when you opened the refrigerator you found that what had drawn you into the kitchen was missing. Someone had finished off the juice without replacing it with another from the pantry. You could opt for something else, sure – water or something, but juice was what you'd set your mind to. Room temperature will work... so long as you can get into the bottle.
So far it's been a struggle.
You try again, changing your grip on the bottle and bottle top in the hopes that maybe your efforts will be met with reward. Still no movement. The machine that sealed this bottle in particular did its job, and then some.
Maybe twisting your body a little this way, and holding your mouth just so will help. Except it doesn't. The top doesn't even budge. Are you even loosening it at all??
Grumbling, you scrunch up your nose as you glare at the offending bottle. It isn't even about the juice anymore. It's about triumph over this stubborn cap. You're so not above opening the bottle and then putting it in the fridge, just to prove a point.
Actually, that would be TWO POINTS. (A) That when someone polishes off a bottle they replenish said type of drink. But also (B) that you can open whatever container you damn well please without asking for assistance.
"Cause that's so not happening." You pucker your mouth in a short lived look of disgust. At this point you just know that you've made some sort of progress in loosening the cap and of course if he tried to open it it would open with ease. He'd make one of those faces that all but asks why you were having trouble. He wouldn't actually ask. He knows better than to voice such things.
Placing the bottle on the counter, you point at it, silently commanding it to cooperate before you give it one last go, gripping the cap once more. Holding your breath you twist your wrist, feeling the way the ridges of the cap burn against the palm of your hand. But then — SUCCESS! You feel the damn thing yield against the force you're applying.
Thrilled, you stand back and hop in place, performing a quiet little victory dance in the kitchen.
Then you hear his chuckle.
Whirling around on your heel you find him standing in the doorway, a wide grin on his face. Your elation doesn't quite evaporate, but it is quickly overcome with the heat of embarrassment. "How - how long have you been standing there?"
Did he only just descend the stairs? Only witness that little happy dance of yours? More? Did he hear your grunts of frustration and come to investigate - bearing witness to the way you had to twist your body this way and that to get the bottle open?
