He stood in the kitchen with the hat on his head. Fuck you, he kept repeating in his head. Fuck you. I don’t need to put up with this shit. She had said several times already how much she hated that hat. He just knew it was the little picture on it. She hated it. He just knew that she hated it. What did she care, it was just some stupid logo. He liked that hat.
She was stirring cookie dough and was totally oblivious to his presence.
He still hadn’t said anything out loud.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to use language that forceful. That abrupt. That crass. It wasn’t … he didn’t know the right word to describe it. “Professional” came to mind but this was not a situation where that might be the right adjective.
He stared at the tile floor. Maroon-toned hexagons fitted together in an infinite wink of workers and drones. Organic colors and geometry. But nothing organic about it. Fuck you.
He cleared his throat.
She set the metal bowl down and started banging the wooden spoon against its rim. A cheery CLANG as she whallopped off the excess. Her eyes fixed on the glossy pages of the cookbook.
He pulled on the bill of his hat and walked off.
Bake for 20 minutes.