A cold, late afternoon, you were sleepy, unaware, unable. You reached into the fridge, grabbing a small square plated dish, and ate the creamy contents. It was sweet, probably a brulee, but you didn't care much.

Munching away, you finished the dish, until the lights switched on. Standing in the corner of your view, Agnes stared at you with a mean, mean glare.

"...That was my, Creme Brulee, that I, waited for over 36 minutes and 54 seconds for, all the way down by the gallery near the Tokyo Stadium." Agnes made sure to put a huge emphasis on the whole "my" part.

"The Creme Brulee I wanted to eat this morning. The one that I had restrained myself for a night to save." She walked up to you, and looked you dead in the eye. "..."

Her face breaks into a pout, and she slapped your chest, before whipping around to face away from you.

"Don't ever talk to me again." ...Agnes... is pouting...? Agnes, your deadpan, and scientifically absorbed scientist wife, is pouting...?