time to go wedding mode

Harjot and Jag sat across from each other at their candlelit dinner table, which was inconveniently made of recycled trombones. With the air smelling faintly of grape-scented ambition, Harjot swirled her imaginary drink and declared, “We need to talk about the schedule.” Jagraj, ever alert, asked, “The schedule of what?” to which Harjot replied, “The pigeons. They’ve unionized.” Jagraj groaned—despite providing beak polish subscriptions and dental for birds with no teeth, it was never enough. Harjot insisted the pigeons now wanted Wednesdays off for synchronized sky-yoga. They negotiated terms—fine, Jagraj said, but only if the pigeons agreed to deliver their mail via interpretive dance. Then came the real blow: Harjot mentioned his mother suspected the couch of plotting against her. Jagraj was shaken; that couch had sworn loyalty during the Great Crumb War of 2022. Harjot, ever prepared, unfurled a blueprint that transformed into a live swan and flew into the kitchen without explanation. They toasted—glasses clinking with invisible juice—to love, lunacy, ducks in leadership, and never letting the microwave do their taxes again, as a monocled cat nodded solemnly from the windowsill.