Undone by a can opener

When I moved out of home, I didn’t expect that of all the things that could go wrong, my housemate and I would be undone by the humble can opener.

Waking up on my first morning in the apartment, I begin making breakfast. “Do you know how to use a can opener?” she asks me.

“What do you mean?” I reply. “As in, the one I bought for the apartment?”

Holding up a battered can of tinned peaches she says, “Yeah, it wouldn’t work when I tried to use it.”

Baffled, I examine the can. The sweet, sticky peach juice clings to my fingers and I can see the glistening residue on the benchtop where she mangled the can in an attempt to get to her breakfast.

“Are you sure you know how to use the can opener?” I joke.

“Who knows? I looked up YouTube videos to see if I was doing it right and it still wouldn’t work.”

I lick the juice off my fingers. It tastes like the sweet freedom of the first morning in a new apartment.

“I even called Mum and she said, ‘How the hell do you not know how to use a can opener?’”

“Well next time you need to open a can, tell me and I’ll show you how to use it,” I tell her.

That afternoon at work, my phone pings. I slide open the notification and see a photo of a bowl of baked beans. Sitting next to it is a mutilated can that has evidently been hacked apart using the knife and scissors on the benchtop next to it.

Another message appears. “I feel both stupid and powerful.”

When I get home, I open the kitchen drawer to start making dinner. Sitting inside is a brand-new can opener.