It was 5 PM. The aroma of burnt toast hung heavy in the air, a fitting testament to my day. My wife, Deborah, hadn’t spoken a word since 7 AM, a silent storm of simmering displeasure. “5 PM: Wife’s mood? Still grumpy,” I muttered to myself, checking my watch for the tenth time. This was a record. Usually, the grumpy phase ended around lunchtime, replaced by a slightly less grumpy, but still-slightly-grumpy, afternoon.
I decided to tackle the problem head-on, armed with a half-eaten chocolate bar and a pathetically optimistic smile. “Deborah, my love,” I began, offering her the chocolate. She glared at me, a look that could curdle milk.
“Don’t ‘my love’ me, Bernard,” she snapped. “The plumber was supposed to be here at noon. It’s 5 PM. The kitchen sink is still overflowing with…well, let’s just say it’s not lemonade.”
I paled. The plumber. I’d completely forgotten to schedule him. I’d been too busy perfecting my interpretive dance routine to the theme music from “The Price is Right.” (It’s a work in progress, let’s just say.)
“But… but the interpretive dance… it was so close to perfection!” I pleaded, gesturing wildly with the remaining chocolate.
Deborah’s eyes narrowed. “Bernard, do you know what’s more perfect than your ‘Price is Right’ interpretive dance?”
I shook my head, bracing myself for a lecture on marital responsibility.
“A fully functioning kitchen sink,” she said, a hint of something resembling amusement creeping into her voice. “And that, my dear, is something we can celebrate. With pizza. Extra cheese.”
So there I was, at 5:30 PM, happily munching on extra-cheesy pizza, the lingering scent of burnt toast a distant memory. The plumber hadn’t shown, but Deborah’s mood had miraculously shifted—apparently, the combination of a flooding kitchen and my spectacularly terrible dancing was just the right recipe for a change in marital fortune. Or maybe it was the pizza. Either way, I wasn’t complaining.
