First Try, No Witnesses Except the Pothos

The container was the last one in the cabinet and I was fully prepared for the lid to be the wrong lid, the lid from a different container that lives in a drawer somewhere and has no partner, which is its own category of kitchen grief. But I pressed it down and it clicked. First try. Clean, flat, done.

I stood there for what I can only describe as an unreasonable amount of time just waiting for something to be off. A slight bow in the plastic. A hiss of air. The soft pop of betrayal. Gerald was on the windowsill being completely unhelpful. The cord was on the windowsill being even less helpful. Nothing happened. The lid just fit.

Giving it thirty seconds before I trust it

I pressed it once more to check. Then a second time because the first check didn't count. It still fit.

This is, objectively, not a notable event. It is a container. It has a lid. The lid goes on the container, that is the lid's entire reason for existing. And yet I thought about it for the next twenty minutes in a way that suggests I may have needed the win more than I realized. The prints are still leaning against the kitchen wall. The cord is doing whatever it does in September light, which is something slightly different than what it does in August. Gerald added nothing. It was a good morning.