“Why Kevin No Longer Tells His Wife What He Wants for Dinner”
“Dont you ever ask what Id like for dinner anymore?” Kevin asked his wife as he left for work one morning. “Or does it not matter to you now?”
“I thought Id surprise you with something nice,” Emily replied dismissively. “But if you insist, I could make something specific.”
“Its not about that,” Kevin said. “Its the principle. Is it really so hard to ask? Dont you care anymore?”
“Honestly? No,” Emily admitted. “Not in the slightest. Whats so interesting about it?”
“Oh, is that so?” Kevin scoffed. “How times change. You used to ask. So it *did* matter back then!”
Emily paused.
*Hmm,* she thought. *Hes rightI did ask before. Awkward. Better humour him, or hell never let it go.*
“What would you like for dinner, then?” she asked.
Kevin smirked.
*Doing me a favour now, is she? Fine. I wont be difficult. Marriage is about compromise, after all. Ill be the bigger person. No need to act like some controlling bully. Forgiveness is what makes us human.*
“Alright,” he said magnanimously. “Bangers and mash.”
“What kind of sausages?” Emily pressed. “Pork, beef, or lamb? Or maybe fish fingers?”
“Anything but fish fingers!” Kevin groaned. “Are you joking? You know Ive hated them since primary school.”
*Ugh, wrong move,* Emily thought. *Why did I say that? Hes told me a million times how he choked on them at school. Now hell drone on about his tragic fish finger trauma all day. Or all week. Mustnt forgethe despises custard too.*
“What about the sides?” she asked quickly. “Roasties, chips, or peas? Maybe some Yorkshire puddings?”
“Roasties,” Kevin said. “But proper crispy ones, not soggy.”
“Of course, darling,” Emily said sweetly. “Crispy it is.”
“Im not worried,” Kevin said smugly. “Youre the one who should be worried.”
*Why did I say that?* he immediately regretted. *Trying to prove a point? Came off rude. Whats wrong with me? Still a long way to go before Im a proper gentleman.*
“If its not too much trouble, love,” he added gently, “could you make a salad? Tomatoes, cucumbers, the usual.”
“Of course, darling,” Emily cooed.
“And with garlic and parsley.”
“Garlic and parsley,” she repeated, smiling.
“And a dollop of mayo.”
“Mayo.”
“And fry the roasties with onions too,” Kevin added.
“Everything just how you like it, sweetheart,” Emily promised.
Kevin kissed her goodbye and left, but the whole way to work, he couldnt shake the feeling something was off. All day, he was distracted, puzzling over Emilys odd behaviour.
*Its fine,* he told himself. *Well talk tonight. Maybe I upset her without realising. Ill fix it.*
At dinner, Kevin picked at his bangers and mash, watching as Emily devoured a golden roast chicken. She drenched it in gravy, taking huge, enthusiastic bites, grinning between mouthfuls.
“Hold on,” Kevin said. “Why are you eating roast chicken while Ive got sausages?”
“Fancied chicken tonight,” Emily said cheerfully. “When you asked for bangers, I realised I didnt want them. But yours look lovely!”
“But I thought wed eat the same thing,” Kevin said, crestfallen.
“Sorry,” Emily mumbled through a mouthful. “Thought itd be niceyou eat what you like, I eat what I like. Brilliant, right?”
“Charming,” Kevin muttered. “Can I have some chicken? Looks proper good.”
“Nope,” Emily said. “Made just enough for me. But youve got all those lovely bangers! And the salad! And roasties! Enjoy!”
“But theres a whole drumstick left!” Kevin protested. “Ill share my sausages!”
“Thats mine,” Emily said. “Made two for myself. You stick to your bangers.”
Kevin chewed his sausages miserably, watching her demolish the second drumstick. The way she crunched the crispy skin made his own meal taste like cardboard.
“I made the skin extra crispy,” Emily said. “Absolutely divine. Wish you could try some.”
“Ill bet,” Kevin sighed.
He forced a smile, finishing his last bite.
The next morning, Emily asked brightly, “What would you like for dinner, darling?”
“Roast chicken,” Kevin said firmly. “Dreamt about the bloody thing all night. Make it just like yours. And loads of gravy.”
“Of course, sweetheart,” Emily said.
That evening, Kevin pushed his chicken around his plate. Emily, meanwhile, was devouring a steaming lamb stew.
“Its heavenly when its hot,” she gushed. “Could eat this every day. Loved it since I was a kid.”
All week, Kevin endured Emilys culinary tauntsspaghetti carbonara, shepherds pie, even crispy fried whitebait.
“I want whitebait too,” he whined.
“Why didnt you say this morning?” Emily said. “I made you steak and kidney pie for nothing.”
“How was I supposed to know?” Kevin grumbled. “You couldve given me a hint.”
“Didnt know myself till dinnertime,” Emily said.
“Just give me a few!”
“Not a chance,” she said sternly. “What would I eat? Your pie? No thanks.”
The next morning, when Emily asked about dinner, Kevin shook his head.
“No more games, love,” he said. “Youve had your fun. Whatever you make for yourself, make double. And thats that.”
From that day on, Kevin never told Emily what he wanted for dinner again.
