A Prelude to Love
On his way home from work, George suddenly craved spaghetti bolognese. The craving was so strong his feet carried him straight into the supermarket. Swallowing hard, he hurried to the pasta aisle.
Just then, his phone buzzed. A text from his wife.
“Ive booked a manicure, back in an hour. Sort yourselves out for dinneror wait for me.”
An “hour” for his wife was a flexible concept. George wasnt about to wait around indefinitely. And Tommy was probably starving. Best check his homework quickly and get on with the pasta.
Rightmince, spaghetti onions at home a couple of beers too might as well grab a jar of bolognese sauce. Tommy loves it, and so does the wife.
With everything in hand, George rushed home.
His responsible second-grader proudly presented his homework before settling down with his console.
“Tommy, spaghetti bolognese for dinner!” George announced.
“With sauce?” the boy asked.
“With sauce.”
Tommy grinned and went back to his game.
Spaghetti bolognese is quick work. George boiled the pasta while frying the mince and onions. Just mix it all togetherthose who want sauce can add it.
Then his phone buzzed again. The wife.
“You home?”
“Yep.”
“Brilliant. Forgot my purse. Come rescue me.”
Snatching his wallet, George dashed to the beauty salon next door.
Turned out, there was no need to hurry. He waited ten minutes, flipping through a magazine on the table to pass the time.
By the end, he nearly wanted to strangle whoever published it.
Adverts, adverts, nothing but adverts. The odd article? Uselesshow to land a husband, how to lose weight, how to catch a mans eye, even how to “set the mood” for intimacy.
Not literally rearranging the bedroom, mind youjust the usual nonsense about meaningful glances, accidental touches, scented candles, rose petals. Like the writer lived in some made-up romantic fantasy.
Ten years of marriage had taught George otherwise.
Real life isnt like magazines. Ninety percent of married women come home thinking, “Right, dinner, laundry, kids homework, ironing” Whos got time for rose petals?
Want romance? Take over the dishes after dinner and check the kids homework. Thats the best prelude there is. No candles needed, no headaches induced.
Speaking of whichhere she was.
“All done! Settle up with the stylist. Need to pop to the shops?”
She was in high spiritseyes bright, smile wide. The magic of a fresh manicure. Perfect time to fan the flames.
“Already did,” George said casually. “Dinners sorted.”
“Hooray! Whats on the menu?”
“Spaghetti bolognese,” he replied, deliberately offhand.
A second later, fifty-five kilos of pure delight flung themselves around his neck.
As he hugged his wife, George glanced at the glossy magazine on the table and mentally flipped off the clueless writer.
Now *thats* how you spark love. No doubt the evening would blaze just fine.
Not with petals and candlesjust the real thing.
Now *thats* a proper prelude.
