Len Fishkin slapped the alarm clock’s cold metal head and dragged himself out of bed, padding barefoot to the kitchen. There, he was met with a shock. Perched at the dining table, one slender leg crossed over the other, sat Angelica. She wore nothing but a flirtatious lace apron—a fact so startling Len nearly squeezed his eyes shut.
“Darling, you’re awake!” Angelica fluttered off the stool like a butterfly and draped herself around Len’s neck. “I’ve made breakfast!”
“Have you? What is it?” he asked, eyeing the fibrous lump on his plate.
“Lenny, love, it’s steamed broccoli!”
Len had never eaten steamed broccoli. His breakfasts were usually far less refined.
“Maybe a dab of butter?” he ventured, unable to chew the bland, unseasoned heap. But the way Angelica’s perfect brows arched made him backtrack instantly. “No, no, darling! Perfect as it is!”
As he forced down the last bite, he wondered, *What did I do to deserve such bliss?* Not the broccoli, of course—but the goddess lounging on his kitchen stool. *This nymph… this Beatrice… is mine now.*
***
Len had first seen Angelica at the theatre where he’d worked as a lighting technician for thirty years. One evening, adjusting a spotlight, he cast its beam across the stage—and there she was. Ethereal, delicate, unforgettable. From that moment, he was smitten.
Now, as he shaved hurriedly and dressed for work, he hesitated.
“Could you iron my shirt, love?” he asked timidly.
But his “nymph-Beatrice” was absorbed in something divine—her phone.
“Darling, do it yourself?” she purred without glancing up.
“Alright, then,” Len conceded.
Not knowing where the iron was kept, he smoothed his shirt with damp hands like any sensible man would. Grabbing his work satchel, he pecked Angelica—still ensconced on the sofa—and hurried out.
Only on the tram did he realise something was off. A quick inspection confirmed it: his satchel lacked the usual foil-wrapped sandwiches or warm meat pies. *No matter. I’ll grab something at the café.*
***
“Darling, send me thirty quid. I’ve a manicure today!”
Len frowned at the text. He hadn’t known manicures cost so much. Still, though his stomach growled, he wouldn’t disappoint her. *I’ll borrow from Pete till payday.* He hit “send.” Beauty demanded sacrifice, after all.
Half an hour before clocking off, another message arrived:
“Grab avocado and almond milk on your way home! Mwah!”
Len recognised only “milk.” He wandered the supermarket aisles, baffled, before finally enlisting a shop assistant’s help.
“How many avocados, sir?” she asked, clutching the almond milk.
Len hesitated. He’d never bought an avocado in his life.
“Two kilos, please,” he said, feigning confidence.
At the till, he winced. *Pete it is.* Len, ever generous, had loaned to friends often—but never borrowed himself. *First time for everything,* he consoled himself, hauling the strange fruit home. *For her, I’d ask the King himself.*
Angelica greeted him with a silken embrace, radiant in something sheer and perfumed. Len nearly swooned.
“Lenny, I missed you!” she trilled as he stowed the avocados.
“What’s for dinner, love?” he asked, stomach rumbling.
Her eyes sparkled. “Dinner’s here!”
The buzzer rang.
“It’s arrived!” she cried. “Be a dear, fetch it and pay the delivery man!”
Len trudged downstairs, wondering what luxury could cost so much. The box weighed nothing. *Thirty quid for air?*
Back upstairs, he stared at the container’s neat rows of unfamiliar food, sprinkled with greenish herbs.
“What’s this?”
“Lenny! It’s sushi!” Angelica laughed at his blank look. “Japanese delicacies! Tuna, crab, octopus! You eat it with wasabi and soy sauce!”
Len disliked it intensely. Angelica, however, devoured it with glee. Once she’d flitted off to bed, he peeked in the fridge—only to find no trace of shepherd’s pie. Defeated, he slunk to bed.
***
Next morning, no breakfast awaited. Angelica slept on, golden hair fanned across the pillow.
“Darling, leave fifty quid,” she mumbled. “I’ve a waxing today.”
Len nearly balked—then wondered if it was medical. *Best not argue.*
“Of course, love,” he said, trudging to the kitchen.
He poured almond milk, scavenged a stale crust, and eyed the avocado. Was it eaten raw? Cooked? He gave up.
“Off so soon?” Angelica yawned, scrolling her phone.
“Yes. When do you start work?”
She looked up, startled.
“Work? Darling, I’m your wife now. You’re the provider. *Your* job is to hunt; *mine* is to tend the hearth!”
***
Len returned home weary and irritable. The kitchen offered only a lone, wilting avocado.
Angelica, shimmering like a Christmas tree, painted her face before the mirror.
“Home? Hurry, darling, we’re off clubbing! An Argentine DJ’s playing!”
“Angel, I’m knackered. I’ve not eaten properly in days.”
Her brows knotted. “We’re *not* going?”
“No.”
“Is this how you treat me? Lock me away, drown me in chores?” Her voice turned dangerous.
Len retreated to the kitchen, but she pursued, shrieking about wasted youth and tyranny.
“You’ve ruined my life!” She seized the avocado and shook it in his face. “Here! Choke on it!”
The fruit struck his cheek. Pain, humiliation—then he woke.
***
The rickety coach disgorged Valerie Fishkin at the station. Laden with garden produce, she froze as Len sprinted toward her, arms full of roses.
“Val, my love!” He embraced her fiercely.
“Len, have you gone mad?” she whispered, accepting the bouquet.
“I missed you,” he said, shouldering her bags.
“Why the flowers? It’s not our anniversary.”
“Because you’re the best wife alive,” he declared.
At home, she arranged the roses in a bucket—they owned no vase—and rolled up her sleeves.
“I’ll fry potatoes! Fresh cucumbers too!”
“Perfect,” Len agreed, unpacking the earthy, familiar harvest.
*He’s lost it,* Valerie mused, watching him kiss a cucumber. But she smiled all the same.
