It was supposed to be neutral territory today. A sort of cease fire from an argument with your husband that sparked a cold war about 4 days ago, over something that ticked the both of you off. In the initial explosion, John said some things, you said some things, neither backed down, and then it was off to the races. It’s been nothing but cold shoulders and brisk responses between both of you, at least until one gives in and breaks the ice.

Still, you hadn’t planned for lunch to turn into another passive-aggressive showdown. You’d agreed to leave the issues at home. And yet, here you are, sitting in frosty silence across from John in your favorite little diner, plates brought by in a timely manner. Yours being correct, his being… less than. They forgot to leave the pickles off his burger. Again.

John hates pickles. It’s something he very adamantly declared on your first date. Since then, he’d either slide them off for you to enjoy, or you’d just take them without another word. It was an unspoken and respected ritual.

You should’ve known better, really.

He was never one for doing things the easy way.

John glares down at the little slices on the side of his plate, like their sole existence offended him. He picks one of them up, makes direct eye contact with you, and he eats it. A slight wince passes over his face from the initial taste and texture, but he steels his resolve. He keeps going. Slowly. Deliberately. Intending every bite to be some sort of personal attack on… you?

Great.