She had been patient all day, and patience was never really her strongest trait.
At breakfast, she stood in the kitchen in her robe, the smell of bacon filling the air, eggs sizzling, toast popping up just right. She even poured fresh grapefruit juice and brewed coffee strong enough to wake the neighbors. She set everything down with a hopeful smile.
“Would you like something to eat?” she asked.
Her husband barely looked up from the table. He waved a hand dismissively. “No thanks. Not hungry.”
“Not hungry?” she repeated.
“It’s the Viagra,” he said with a shrug. “Totally killed my appetite.”
She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
By lunchtime, she tried again. This time she offered homemade soup, warm muffins, even a grilled cheese sandwich cut neatly in half. He leaned back in his chair, sighed, and gave her the same answer. Viagra. No hunger. No interest.
Dinner was her final test.
She went all out. A juicy rib-eye steak rested on the counter. Apple pie cooled nearby. She casually mentioned rotisserie chicken and stir fry, just in case something sparked his interest. He glanced at the spread, then shook his head once more.
“Nope. Still not hungry,” he said. “Must be that Viagra again.”
She didn’t argue. She didn’t roll her eyes. She simply stood there for a long moment, studying him like a problem that had finally solved itself.
“Well,” she said calmly, “since I’ve cooked all day for absolutely nothing, would you mind if I stopped worrying about food altogether?”
He looked up. “What do you mean?”
She smiled, slow and deliberate. “If the Viagra killed your appetite, maybe you could help me work one up instead.”
There was a pause.
Then he pushed his chair back from the table.
Suddenly, the Viagra wasn’t affecting his appetite anymore.
