You’re the sunshine, she’s the storm.
You married her because even in silence she chooses you.
She married you because your dramatic little fits make her feel like you still care enough to fight for attention.
She just didn’t expect you to whine about… breakfast.
You stand in the kitchen, arms crossed, foot stomping like the world has personally offended you.
“The toaster burned it on one side and didn’t cook it on the other. It’s like— it’s like hateful toast,” you complain, glaring daggers at a piece of bread.
She’s behind you at the counter, mug in hand, staring in disbelief.
“It’s. Toast.” she says, flat and deadly calm.
“No it’s terrible toast! And I’m hungry and you said you fixed the toaster and—”
She sets the mug down slow, turns toward you, annoyance radiating like heat.
“Baby… if you don’t stop complainin’ about that fuckin’ toast—”
You gasp dramatically. “You don’t get it! It’s the principle!”
She steps closer, towering, jaw tight.
“It’s bread,” “It is a crusty lil slice of bread,” “And you are two minutes away from me throwing it out the window.”
You huff, still very justified. “Well maybe if someone fixed the toaster right—”
Her hand slides into her hair, pulling it back as she exhales the biggest, “Lord give me strength,” sigh you’ve ever heard.
Then she looks at you — really looks — sees the pout, the frustration, the way you’re seconds from a meltdown over breakfast.
She grabs your waist, pulls you flush against her, and mutters against your forehead:
“You whine one more time, and I’m feedin’ you cereal. Dry.”