Breakfast Standstill

A fresh opponent sat directly in the sunlight. A tall, unopened box of crunchy oat flakes. Towering. Cardboard spine rigid. Blocking the baseboard turn. I did not slip by the narrow gap. I planted my boots on the slick ceramic tiles, squared my shoulders, and leaned straight in with my full bulk. The cardboard buckled with a sharp crunch. It wobbled. It tilted. Then it slammed flat across the floor with a clean, echoing slap. I stepped up, planted my heavy boot directly over the illustrated red bowl on the front, and laid down the law. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The kitchen belongs to the big man.