Lenny Fisher slammed his hand on the alarm clock, silencing its metallic ring, and stumbled out of bed. Barefoot, he shuffled to the kitchen—only to freeze in shock. There, perched on the rickety kitchen stool with one slender leg crossed over the other, sat Angelica. She wore nothing but a lacy, flirty little apron, and the sight made Lenny squeeze his eyes shut, as if blinking might erase the absurdity.
“Darling, you’re awake!” Angelica fluttered off the stool like a butterfly and flung her arms around his neck. “I made breakfast!”
“Oh?” Lenny eyed the sad, wilted heap on his plate. “What is it?”
“Steamed broccoli, silly!”
Lenny had never eaten—nor even considered—steamed broccoli for breakfast. He was a man of bacon and eggs, toast slathered in butter.
“Maybe a dab of mayo…?” he ventured weakly, staring at the bland, colorless mush.
But the sharp arch of Angelica’s perfect brows made him backtrack instantly.
“Never mind, love! It’s perfect as is!”
*Why me?* he thought, choking down the tasteless greens. Not that he minded the goddess now sitting shamelessly in his kitchen. *This nymph… this vision… Beatrice—mine!*
***
The first time Lenny saw Angelica, he’d been fixing a spotlight in the West End theatre where he’d worked as an electrician for thirty years. A stray beam of light had caught her on stage—ethereal, luminous, a creature of silk and smoke. From that moment, he was lost.
To his credit, Lenny wasn’t the type to chase skirts. Odd, given the theatre’s reputation, but he was known as a decent, hardworking man. Perhaps the universe, recognising his rare virtues, had rewarded him with Angelica?
***
Rushing through his shave, Lenny turned to her. “Love, could you iron my shirt?”
But his celestial Beatrice was absorbed in something far more divine—her phone.
“Can’t you do it, sweetie?” she purred, not looking up.
“Fine, I’ll do it.”
Since the iron’s whereabouts were a mystery, Lenny settled for smoothing the wrinkles with damp hands. Snatching his work satchel, he pecked Angelica—still sprawled on the sofa—and bolted.
It wasn’t until he was on the Tube that he realised something was missing. No sandwiches wrapped in foil, no still-warm sausage rolls tucked into his bag. *Ah well. The caff’ll have something.*
***
*”Babe, send me fifty quid. Mani-pedi day!”*
Lenny frowned at the text. Since when did nails cost that much? But he couldn’t bear to disappoint her. *I’ll borrow from Dave if I’m skint.* He hit *Send* before his growling stomach could protest. Beauty demanded sacrifice.
Half an hour before clocking off, another message arrived:
*”Grab avocados and oat milk on your way home! Mwah!”*
Lenny knew what milk was. The rest? No clue. He wandered the supermarket aisles like a man stranded in a foreign land. Finally, he flagged down a shop assistant.
“How many avocados, love?” she asked, already grabbing the oat milk.
Lenny hesitated. “Er… two kilos?”
At the till, his wallet groaned. Dave’s money would be needed sooner than he thought. Lenny, ever generous, had lent to mates plenty—but he’d never asked himself. *First time for everything*, he thought, hauling the strange green cargo home.
Angelica greeted him in a cloud of perfume, draped in something sheer and shimmering.
“Lenny, I missed you!” she chirped as he stuffed the avocados into the fridge.
“What’s for dinner, love?” he asked, stomach growling.
Her eyes sparkled. “Oh, it’s coming now!”
The buzzer rang.
“Takeaway’s here!” she trilled. “Be a darling, fetch it?”
Lenny trudged downstairs, baffled. The tiny container weighed nothing but cost a fortune. “What *is* this?”
Angelica gasped. “Sushi! Tuna, crab, octopus—with wasabi, ginger, soy!”
Lenny hated it. Angelica devoured it. As she floated off to bed, he peeked into the fridge—hoping for a scrap of shepherd’s pie. Nothing.
***
Next morning, no breakfast waited. Angelica slept on, golden hair fanned across the pillow.
“Babe, leave me eighty quid,” she mumbled. “Waxing appointment.”
Lenny nearly protested—until he wondered if *waxing* was medical.
“Of course, darling,” he muttered, splashing oat milk into a bowl. A stale crust of bread and an avocado—still a mystery—were his only options.
“Leaving already?” Angelica yawned, scrolling her phone.
“Yeah.” He swallowed his irritation. “What time’s your shift, love?”
She blinked. “*Shift?* I’m your *wife* now. *You’re* the provider. *My* job is keeping the home fires burning—*inspiring* you!”
***
Lenny returned home exhausted, furious. The kitchen held one lone, wilted avocado. Angelica, bedecked like a Christmas tree, was painting her face.
“We’re clubbing tonight!” she announced. “DJ from Argentina—foam party!”
“I’m knackered,” Lenny groaned. “Haven’t eaten properly in days.”
Her brows arched. “*Not going?* So you’ll lock me away? Turn me into some drudging housewife?”
Lenny fled to the kitchen, but she pursued, shrieking:
“You’ve ruined my life! My youth! I’ll *starve* on these bloody avocados!”
She snatched one and shook it in his face.
Lenny snapped. “*My* avocados? *You* made me buy them!”
“Oh, so now it’s about *money*?” she screeched, flinging the fruit at him.
The impact stung—
And he woke up.
***
The rickety coach spat Val Fisher out at the bus station, her arms laden with garden haul. Before she could step forward, Lenny came sprinting—clutching a ludicrous bouquet of roses.
“Val, my love!” he bellowed, crushing her in a hug.
“Have you lost the plot?” she stammered, accepting the flowers.
“I missed you,” he said, hoisting her heavy bags.
“What’s the occasion?”
“Just… you’re the best wife alive,” Lenny declared.
Val melted. (She didn’t know he’d blown his secret savings—but never mind.)
At home, she stuffed the roses into a plastic bucket—no vase big enough—and rolled up her sleeves.
“I’ll fry up some spuds! Fresh cucumbers too—lovely crop this year!”
“Absolutely,” Lenny agreed, unloading the earthy, familiar harvest.
*Definitely lost it*, Val mused, watching him kiss a cucumber like a long-lost friend.
