Slamming his hand down on the alarm clock, Lenny Fisher dragged himself out of bed and padded barefoot to the kitchen—only to freeze in shock. There, perched on one of the rickety kitchen chairs with her legs crossed, sat Angelica. She wore nothing but a flimsy lace apron, and the sight was enough to make Lenny squeeze his eyes shut for a second.
“Sweetheart, you’re awake!” Angelica fluttered up like a butterfly and threw her arms around his neck before he could react. “I made you breakfast!”
“Did you now?” Lenny eyed the strange, fibrous lump on the plate.
“Mmm, Lenny-love! It’s steamed broccoli.”
Lenny had never once in his life eaten “steamed broccoli” for breakfast. He was more of a bacon-and-eggs sort of bloke.
“Maybe just a dash of ketchup?” he mumbled, struggling to chew the bland, tasteless mess.
But when Angelica’s perfect eyebrows drew together in disapproval, he backtracked instantly.
“Right, right, love—no ketchup! Absolutely not!”
As he forced down the last bite, he wondered, *What did I do to deserve this?*—though he wasn’t thinking about the broccoli. No, his thoughts were all about the goddess sitting at his shabby kitchen table. *This nymph… this vision… my Beatrice!*
***
Lenny first saw Angelica at the theatre where he’d worked as a lighting technician for thirty years. One evening, while fixing a spotlight, he swung the beam onto the stage—and there she was. Ethereal, delicate, otherworldly. She stole his heart in an instant, and from that moment, he was a man obsessed.
Now, Lenny wasn’t the sort to chase after every pretty face—odd for a man in the theatre, really. But in that den of glamour and drama, he’d built a reputation as a decent, hardworking bloke. Maybe that’s why the universe decided to reward him with Angelica.
***
After a rushed shave, Lenny dressed for work.
“Love, could you iron my shirt?” he asked timidly.
But his “nymph-Beatrice” was absorbed in something far more divine—her phone.
“Sweetie, couldn’t you do it yourself?” she purred, not looking up.
“Fine, I’ll do it myself,” Lenny muttered.
Since he had no clue where the iron was at this ungodly hour, he did the next best thing: smoothed his shirt down with slightly damp hands. Problem solved. He grabbed his toolbox, pecked Angelica (still glued to the sofa), and bolted for work.
It wasn’t until he was on the bus that he realised something was missing. A quick pat-down confirmed it—no sandwiches wrapped in foil, no little tub of still-warm shepherd’s pie. *Ah well. I’ll grab something from the canteen.*
***
“Babe, send me fifty quid. I’ve got a nail appointment!”
Lenny blinked at the text. Since when did nails cost that much? But despite his growling stomach, he didn’t want to disappoint her. *I’ll borrow a tenner off Dave if I have to,* he thought, hitting *Send Money*. Beauty requires sacrifices, after all.
Half an hour before clocking off, his phone buzzed again.
“Grab some quinoa and almond milk on your way home! Mwah!”
Lenny knew what milk was. The rest? Not a clue. He wandered the supermarket aisles, baffled, before finally asking a shop assistant for help.
“How much quinoa would you like?” she asked, already heading for the free-from section.
Lenny panicked. He’d never bought quinoa in his life.
“Um… two kilos?”
At the till, he winced. *Definitely hitting Dave up now.*
Back home, Angelica greeted him with open arms, glowing in something sheer and flowy. His head spun just looking at her.
“Lenny-love, I missed you!” she chirped as he stuffed the weird grains into the fridge. “What’s for dinner?”
His stomach rumbled, but he hoped she wouldn’t notice.
“Dinner’s coming!” she announced—just as the intercom buzzed.
“Takeaway’s here! Be a darling and fetch it?”
Lenny trudged downstairs, wondering what on earth cost this much yet weighed nothing.
“What *is* this?” he asked, staring at the neat rows of odd-looking food sprinkled with green bits.
“Lenny, don’t tell me you don’t know sushi!” Angelica gasped.
It turned out sushi was Japanese food—tuna, crab, octopus, all drowned in wasabi and soy sauce. Lenny hated it. The only upside? Angelica adored it and devoured most of the box.
The second she flitted off to bed, Lenny rummaged through the fridge, praying for leftover bangers and mash. No luck. He slunk off to bed, defeated.
***
Next morning, no breakfast waited. Angelica was still asleep, golden hair splayed across the pillow.
“Sweetie, leave me eighty quid,” she murmured without opening her eyes. “I’ve got a waxing appointment.”
Lenny’s first instinct was outrage—but what if “waxing” was some medical thing? He bit his tongue.
“Course, love. Whatever you need.”
He sloshed almond milk into a bowl, scanning the kitchen for something—*anything*—edible. A stale slice of bread lurked in the bread bin. Next to it? The quinoa. He poked it, clueless if it was meant to be raw or cooked.
“Off so soon?” Angelica yawned, already scrolling through her phone.
“Yeah, work calls,” Lenny said, swallowing his irritation. “What time’s your shift, love?”
She actually looked up, baffled.
“Shift? Darling, I’m your *wife* now. My job is keeping your home lovely and inspiring you! *You’re* the provider!”
***
Lenny came home exhausted, hungry, and thoroughly fed up. The kitchen offered only a sad lump of quinoa. In the bedroom, Angelica sat at the mirror, painting something elaborate onto her face.
“You’re back!” she trilled. “Quick, change—we’re going clubbing!”
“*Where?*”
“There’s an Argentinian DJ and a foam party!”
“Angel, I’m knackered,” Lenny groaned, collapsing onto the bed. “I’ve been on my feet all day, I’ve barely eaten—I just want to sleep.”
Angelica set down her makeup, twisting to face him with narrowed eyes.
“Oh, so now I’m a prisoner?” Her voice turned icy. “You drag me into this dull little life, make me into some housemaid—”
Lenny knew this storm. He fled to the kitchen.
But Angelica wasn’t done.
“How *dare* you! I gave up *everything* for you!” She snatched the quinoa and shook it in his face. “Is *this* what my life is worth?!”
Lenny snapped.
“*My* quinoa? *You* made me buy it!”
“Typical!” she shrieked. “Now it’s all about money! Fine—here’s your bloody quinoa!”
The throw was surprisingly accurate. It smacked Lenny square in the face—
—and he woke up.
***
The bus spat Valerie Fisher out at the station with the rest of the weekend gardeners. Grabbing her bags of homegrown veggies, she took a step—then stopped dead.
Barrelling toward her was Lenny, arms full of roses.
“Val, love, I’ve missed you!” he shouted, crushing her in a hug.
“Len, have you lost the plot?” she stammered, taking the flowers.
“Just wanted you to know you’re the best wife a man could have,” Lenny declared, hoisting her heavy bags.
Val melted. (She didn’t know he’d blown his secret stash on those roses—but details, details.)
At home, she stuffed the bouquet into a plastic bucket (they didn’t own a vase) and rolled up her sleeves.
“Right, Lenny-love, I’ll fry us up some spuds to go with these fresh cucumbers!”
“Perfect,” Lenny agreed, laying out the crisp, dewy veggies.
Val shook her head fondly as he kissed a cucumber like it was treasure.
*Yep. Lost the plot.*
