**The Prelude of Love**
On his way home from work, George suddenly craved spaghetti bolognese. The craving was so strong his feet practically carried him into the supermarket. Swallowing hard, he made a beeline for the pasta aisle.
Just then, his phone buzzeda WhatsApp message from his wife.
*”Booked a nail appointment, back in an hour. Sort yourselves out for dinner. Or wait for me.”*
An “hour” in his wifes world was a flexible concept. George wasnt about to sit around twiddling his thumbs. And Oliver was probably starving. Best check his homework quickly and get cooking.
Rightmince, spaghetti onions at home a couple of beers too might as well grab a jar of bolognese sauce. Oliver loves it, and so does his wife.
With everything in his basket, George hurried home.
His responsible Year 3 pupil proudly presented his homework before settling back into his PlayStation game.
“Ollie, spaghetti bolognese for dinner!” George announced.
“With sauce?” his son clarified.
“With sauce.”
Oliver grinned and returned to his game.
Spaghetti bolognese is quick work. George boiled the pasta while frying the mince and onions. Just mix it all together, and whoever wanted sauce could add it themselves.
His phone buzzed againhis wife.
*”You home?”*
*”Yeah.”*
*”Brilliant. Forgot my purse. Come rescue me.”*
Snatching his wallet, George dashed to the beauty salon next door.
Turns out, he neednt have rushed. He waited ten minutes, flipping through a magazine on the table to pass the time.
Time wasted, he now wanted to throttle whoever published the drivel inside.
Adverts, adverts, nothing but adverts. The odd article popped upridiculous ones. *How to land a husband, how to lose weight, how to catch a mans eye*, even *how to set the mood for intimacy*.
Not *mood* as in rearranging the bed, but *mood* as in foreplay and warming up. The “prelude of love,” apparently. Absolute nonsense.
The author earnestly lectured on meaningful glances, accidental touches, and other nonsense. Rambled about scented oils, rose petals, candlesas if anyone lived in that fantasy world.
A decade of marriage had taught George otherwise.
Real life isnt like magazines. Ninety percent of married women walk through the door thinking, *Got to cook dinner, toss laundry in, check the kids homework, iron a few things* Rose petals? Seriously?
Want romance? Take on the washing-up or check the kids homework. Nothing sets the mood better in everyday life.
No scented oils or petals needed, and fewer headaches for the wife. Speaking of whichhere she was.
*”All done! Pay the stylist! Need to pop to the shop?”*
She was clearly in high spiritseyes sparkling, smile glowing. The magic of a fresh manicure. Perfect time to stoke the fire.
“Nah,” George said casually. “Already went. And dinners ready.”
“Hooray! What is it?”
“Spaghetti bolognese,” he replied, feigning indifference.
A second later, fifty-five kilograms of pure joy flung themselves around his neck.
Hugging his wife, George glanced at the glossy magazine left on the table and flipped it a one-fingered salute.
Thats how love sparks. No doubt itll blaze into something more by evening.
Not rose petals and candles.
The real prelude.
