2020-06-18 - F for Effort

"Have you shown your boyfriend?" Other people might have lead with other questions. Like, primarily, How? But Sparrow already understood that. She had more pressing interests. "I want to show your boyfriend."

Sitting on the rear left burner of Grant Baxter's stove was a non-stick pot which, when left unattended for an extended period of time, had melted right down into the burner, filling his trailer with noxious fumes which were blessedly thinning now that all the windows were open.

A half sniffle and the back of a charred oven mitt wiping the tears from the smoke and fumes from his cheek Bax muffles from under the bandanna, "Oh hell no I haven't. I'd kinda like to continue him talking to me if it's all the same to everyone." There's a pause and he looks to Sparrow and blinks, "You just sent the picture do him didn't you?" He tried to get a box fan, twice repaired, plugged into a surge suppressor that's plugged into an extension cord plugged into the wall turned on to try to help pull the smoke out.

It's a fair question. Sparrow's phone was out and snapping pictures of the stove. But no. Apparently, people are smart enough to have ensured that she doesn't yet have the private number of one Vyvyan Vydal. It's very certainly for the best given the undoubtedly incriminating evidence she's currently collecting. So that she knows what to pick up at the hardware store in order to fix the appliance. Though she casts an impish grin back at the frazzled Bax, brows given a threatening waggle, she does, after a second or two, answer, "No." It takes another beat before she promises, "I wouldn't. Though. I mean. I'mma have to show Corey. Twin thing. No secrets." She sells the blatant lie with a helpless shrug.

Shoving her phone back into her pocket, she tugs at his arm with a let's go kinda gesture and a nod toward the door. They've got some shopping to do and some tools to retrieve before she can make this problem disappear. "What were you trying to make?"

Grant just watches the smoking lump of metal until his sleeve is tugged. He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and tries to swype the screen on with his finger ensconced in there oven mitt. Order of process is not his friend today.

Through the bandana over his face he bites the fingers of the singed mitten and bites and pulls his hand free to snap a pic. Tossing the thing aside he kicks off a pic of these disaster to Vyv with the message: Why is what you do so hard?!

Following, sleeve tugged, he answers heartweary, "It was supposed to be spaghetti sauce."