“Face down, crybaby. The back keeps them flat.”

“Wow,” I said, “art supplies are sexier than I thought.”

“Not if you fuck them up.”

I didn’t catch that until now. Funny guy.

“You don’t know what I’m into.”

“Mm.”

“Oh shit.”

“What- what is it?”

“We forgot sprinkles.”

“…kid, I. should fucking. kill you.”

“Um.”

A moment.

“Come in here,” you said, “before you catch something on fire.”

In the kitchen, you were intently focused on mixing cake batter.

“I wasn’t-”

“I know, dummy,” you smirked, not looking up. “The keys are in my pocket.”

“I’m really-”

A look.

“Hush. Go get the sprinkles. I forgot them. Please and thank you.”

“Hold on,” you said, putting me on speaker, “I am dyeing.”

I said nothing.

“Okay, what is it?”

“Guess how many different shades they have.”

“I give up.”

“Very close. Five.”

“Very,” you said. “What the hell, five?”

“One of them is sugar-free.”

A laugh.

“I think that is rice. Or, you are at Party City again.”

“Excuse me,” I said, away from the receiver, to no one, “is this Party City?”

Another.

“Good grief,” you sighed. “Are there really five?”

“Five that I found.”

“Ridiculicious. Okay, I am hanging up on you, do not call back.”

“Heard.”

“Hurry home.”