The real reason my finger hurts

It’s not in my kitchen, and the bottle of Soy Sauce is trying to convince me that within its murky depths, there are unknown secrets.

I continue to give it the side eye, knowing that if i fall for this one again… my wife may divorce me. “What are you doing out of the refrigerator?” I ask it.

The sepia toned madness counts the point that it just made a human speak to an inanimate object.

I shake my head. I am not going to drink it. I am not going to be found lying on the floor with a distended belly. I am not-

The brown bottle manages to lewdly wink at me. I punch it halfway across the kitchen.

I am solemnly cleaning the brown splatter off the walls when my wife arrives from circus class.

“Ah,” she says, “I see you’ve been hitting the sauce again.”