"…you hear the clink of silverware against suppressed emotion."
With that cryptic and slightly brunchy farewell, Brunchaia ascended—not dramatically, but like a Google Doc auto-saving a revelation.
The brunchers stood in silence, reverent and mildly bloated.
But then—clang.
The sky burped. A doorbell rang. Yes, the sky had a doorbell now. It was shaped like a boundary and sounded suspiciously like a healthy "No."
Down came a new entity.
On a hoverplate of baked ziti and cosmic resolve.
A man in full sequined armor and a bowtie made of therapy receipts.
"Who in the gluten is that?" Clarissa whispered, clutching her grapefruit of developing joy.
Brunchaia looked back over her shoulder mid-ascension, like a departing substitute teacher leaving behind just one more group project.
"Ah yes. Meet... Chef Closure."
Chef Closure spoke in iambic pentameter and smelled faintly of lavender and confrontation. He wore oven mitts branded with "It's Not Too Late To Unpack That."
