I wrote this in English last year. We had a list of potential first lines, and I chose "Don't throw that away," she screamed.

“Don’t throw that away,” she screamed as Pierre dangled the box of cake mix over the trashcan.

“You can’t bake anything else,” he shouted.

“Yes I can,” she snapped, grabbing a banana and throwing it at his head. He smirked as it missed him and smashed into the wall. In her anger, Vernetta stomped over to the refrigerator, flung the door open, and rummaged around until she found a carton of raspberries. Vernetta pelted Pierre with the raspberries, which knocked his black rimmed glasses to the linoleum. In retaliation, Pierre tore open the box of cake mix and dumped its contents onto Vernetta’s head.

“My guest will be here any minute,” Pierre yelled. “We don’t need anymore of your stupid cakes!” Vernetta's eyes blazed with rage as she stomped on Pierre’s glasses, which crunched under her magenta pump. Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

“Don’t answer it,” Vernetta said through gritted teeth.

“You cannot tell me what to do” Pierre stated, marching out of the kitchen. “Besides, it’s much too late to cancel the dinner party.” Pierre brushed cake mix from his shoes and sauntered down the hall to the front door. Before he could open the door, he crashed into the wall and toppled onto the floor.

“He’s completely blind without his bloody glasses,” Vernetta muttered, shoving the shattered pieces underneath the refrigerator.

“I’m still answering the door,” Pierre called. He scrambled to his feet, adjusted his collar, smoothed his hair, and finally opened the door. A small man wearing a top hat stood on the porch.

“Hello, P-P-Pierre,” the small man whispered, quivering. “I hope it’s alright that I b-brought Fluffy,” He pointed to the calico cat sitting at his feet. Pierre nodded and the pair entered the living room. Vernetta peered down the hall, noticing the guests. She sliced a wedge of cinnamon chocolate chip coffee cake, glided into the living room, and presented the cake to the small man. Lifting his top hat, he bowed in acceptance of Vernetta’s offering. As he examined a morsel of cake on his fork, Vernetta anticipated his response, her hands trembling with anxiety. The small man nibbled a crumb covered chocolate chip and contemplated its taste.

“It d-d-doesn’t q-quite taste like the ones g-grandmother used to make,” he murmured. With a clenched fist, Vernetta knocked the plate onto the floor. The white china shattered into a thousand pieces and sent cake crumbs sliding across the hardwood.

“So you’re saying I can’t cook?” Vernetta screamed. With that, she snatched his cat and dashed out the door.