Beep.
“I know, damn it,” Natasha cursed, glancing back at the microwave as she measured out the flour. Why did she always leave everything until the last minute? She dumped the flour into the waiting bowl, and swore again. She still needed the one cup measuring cup, but didn’t want to double-dip in the flour and sugar, which meant she needed to wash it before using it again.
Beep.
“I know, I know,” she muttered, leaning over the sink. It was just brownies – it shouldn’t be this stressful to make brownies. She hurriedly dried the measuring cup, sliding back to the bowl on the counter. Wait, did she add the sugar to the flour, or the melted chocolate and butter? She squinted at the hand-written recipe on the counter. Why did her aunt have such tiny handwriting? She couldn’t have typed it up or something?
Beep. You are running out of time.
She turned, staring at the microwave. It had only beeped, right? It hadn’t said anything else. She was just stressed, that’s all. She finally deciphered the instructions. Yes, the sugar goes in the chocolate and butter, along with eggs and vanilla. Shit. Did she have vanilla? She opened the cabinet, and took a steadying breath. Either the vanilla was hiding somewhere, or she didn’t have any. Why did this always happen to her? What else could she use for vanilla?
Beep. Don’t want to disappoint…
Natasha ignored the suddenly-sentient microwave. Think. What could she replace the vanilla with? She spied the whiskey bottle out of the corner of her eye. Perfect! Vanilla extract was mostly booze anyway, right? The alcohol would cook off, the brownies would still be child-appropriate.
She grabbed the whiskey and measured out what she needed. She almost took a swig right from the bottle, but stopped herself. She still needed to drive after all this, and showing up with whiskey breath wasn’t a good idea. Now where does the whiskey/vanilla go?
Beep. Your life is a disaster.
Right. The whiskey/vanilla went in the chocolate and butter, where were still sitting in the microwave, not mixed together. She sighed, pulling open the door and removing the bowl. She glanced between the unmixed chocolate and butter mixture, and the spoonful of whiskey.
“Ah, hell,” she muttered, dumping in the whiskey. So what if it was a little out of order? It’d be fine. She stirred ingredients, watching with some satisfaction as the chocolate chunks melted and gave way to a smooth, glossy sauce. That was better. Let the smell of chocolate and whiskey calm her down…
Beep.
“For fuck’s sake!” she yelled, turning back to the microwave. “What do you want now?” The door hung open, the light inside seeming to taunt her. She slammed the door shut. “There,” she panted. “Now you can shut up and leave me alone.”
Natasha stopped, looking around at the disarray in her kitchen. She took a deep breath, then another.
“When you start talking to your appliances, Nat,” she told herself, “that’s when you know you’ve been living alone too long.”
The microwave sat on the counter, smugly silent.
© The Lightning Tower, 2020