Slapping the alarm clock silent, Leonard Fishbourne rose from bed and shuffled barefoot to the kitchen, where a real shock awaited him. At the dining table, one slender leg crossed over the other, sat Angelica. She wore nothing but a flirtatious lace apron—a sight so startling it made Leonard squeeze his eyes shut.
“Darling, you’re awake!” Angelica fluttered up from her stool like a butterfly and draped herself around his neck. “I’ve made breakfast!”
“Have you? What is it?” he asked, eyeing the fibrous lump before him.
“Why, Lenny dear, it’s steamed broccoli.”
Leonard had never eaten “steamed broccoli” for breakfast. His usual fare was something far more ordinary.
“Perhaps a spot of butter?” he ventured weakly, unable to stomach the bland, colorless heap.
But seeing Angelica’s perfect brows knit together above her nose, he hurried to correct himself: “No, no, of course, my love! Butter won’t be necessary!”
As he mechanically chewed, he wondered, “Why am I so blessed?”—though the thought had nothing to do with broccoli and everything to do with the goddess perched on his worn kitchen stool. “This nymph… This enchantress… Beatrice—mine at last!”
***
Leonard first saw Angelica in the theatre where he’d worked as a lighting technician for thirty years. One evening, while fixing a burnt-out spotlight, he cast a beam onto the stage—and there she was. A delicate, ethereal creature who haunted his thoughts ever since.
Now, Leonard was no man to chase after every passing skirt—odd for someone in the theatre, where beauty and drama flourished. He had a reputation for decency, perhaps why fate had rewarded him with Angelica.
***
After a hasty shave, Leonard dressed for work.
“Could you iron my shirt, darling?” he asked timidly.
But his “nymph—Beatrice” was preoccupied with something divine—her smartphone.
“Sweetheart, why don’t you do it?” she purred, eyes fixed on the screen.
“Right, I’ll manage,” Leonard sighed.
Not knowing where the iron lived at this early hour, he smoothed his shirt with damp hands like a proper Englishman, grabbed his tool case, pecked Angelica (now sprawled on the couch), and rushed off.
Only on the bus did he realise something was missing. Glancing down, he noted the absence of a sandwich pouch or a container of still-warm sausages. “No matter. I’ll grab something at the canteen.”
***
“Sweetheart, transfer me £50. Spa day today!”
Leonard frowned at the text. He hadn’t realised spa treatments cost so much. Still, despite his growling stomach, he didn’t want to disappoint her. “I’ll borrow from old Higgins if need be,” he thought, tapping “send.” Beauty, after all, demands sacrifice.
Half an hour before clocking out, another message arrived:
“Pick up avocados and oat milk for dinner on your way back! Kisses!”
Of the two, Leonard only recognised “milk.” He wandered the supermarket aisles, utterly lost, until a shop assistant took pity.
“How many avocados, sir?” she asked politely, already holding the oat milk.
Leonard panicked. How many did people usually buy? Not wanting to seem foolish, he said, “Two kilos, please.”
At the till, he grimaced—Higgins it was. Leonard, ever generous, had lent to friends often but never borrowed himself. “First time for everything,” he reasoned, hauling the exotic haul home. “For a woman like her, I’d even humble myself before Higgins.”
Angelica greeted him with open arms, radiant in something sheer and scented, making his head spin.
“Lenny, I missed you terribly!” she chirped as he stowed the bizarre groceries.
“What’s for dinner, my joy?” he asked weakly, hoping his rumbling stomach went unnoticed.
“Dinner’s just arrived!” she exclaimed—coincidentally, the intercom buzzed.
“Lenny, be a dear—fetch the delivery and pay the driver!”
Clutching the featherlight box, Leonard wheezed up the stairs. “What on earth costs this much and weighs nothing? A bloody tyre?”
“What is it?” he asked, staring at neat rows of green-speckled mystery.
“Lenny, don’t tell me you don’t know sushi!” Angelica laughed. Seeing his blank look, she explained, “It’s Japanese! Tuna, crab, octopus—with wasabi, ginger, and soy sauce!”
Leonard loathed it. The only upside? Angelica devoured most of it. Once she’d flitted off to bed, he peeked in the fridge, praying for leftover shepherd’s pie. No luck. With a sigh, he trudged to bed.
***
Next morning, no breakfast awaited. Angelica slept on, golden hair fanned across the pillow.
“Darling, leave me £70,” she mumbled. “Sugar waxing today.”
Leonard nearly protested—until he realised he didn’t know what “sugar waxing” was. “What if it’s medical?” he thought, chastened. “Of course, my love,” he said glumly, splashing oat milk into a cup.
A stale slice of bread and the forgotten avocado were his only options. Poking the green thing, he gave up—was it meant to be raw? Cooked?
“Off so soon?” Angelica yawned, glued to her phone.
“Yes,” he said, masking irritation. “When do you start work?”
She gasped. “Work? Lenny, I’m your wife now! When I was single, I had to work. But you’re the provider—the hunter! My role is to tend your nest, keep the hearth warm, inspire you!”
***
Leonard returned home cross and exhausted. The kitchen offered only the lone, sagging avocado. In the bedroom, Angelica, glittering like a Christmas tree, painted her face before the mirror.
“Back? Change quickly—we’re clubbing!”
“Clubbing?”
“A foam party! Argentinian DJ tonight!”
“Angel, I’m shattered. I haven’t eaten properly in days.”
She spun, brows sharp as blades. “We’re not going?”
“No.”
“So this is how you treat me? Lock me away, drown me in chores—now I can’t even go out?”
Marital instinct told Leonard to retreat. He turned for the kitchen, but Angelica pursued, shrieking:
“You’ve made me a slave! I never see the world! Was my beauty meant to wither here? What do I get from you?”
“Love, please—”
“Please what? Tyrant! You’ve ruined my best years! I’ll perish on these wretched avocados!”
Seizing the fruit, she shook it in his face—the final straw.
“My avocado?” Leonard snarled, stomach roaring with him. “You asked for it!”
“Here we go! Throwing money in my face! I slaved for your comfort—and this? Take your avocado and choke on it!”
The fleshy missile struck his cheek—pain, humiliation, and—
He woke.
***
The rickety coach spat Valentina Fishbourne onto the station platform among the weekend gardeners. Lugging sacks of homegrown bounty, she froze—charging toward her was Leonard, clutching a massive bouquet of roses.
“Val, my darling, how I’ve missed you!” he cried, embracing her.
“Lenny, have you gone mad?” she stammered, accepting the flowers.
It was bizarre—and lovely.
“You’re the best wife in the world!” he declared, hefting her bags.
“But why the roses? It’s no special day.”
“Because you’re you.”
Val melted. She didn’t know he’d blown his savings, but no matter.
At home, she arranged the blooms in a plastic bucket (no vase being grand enough) and rubbed her hands.
“I’ll whip up some fried potatoes with fresh cucumbers!”
“Splendid!” Leonard beamed, unloading fragrant, dewy veg.
“Definitely gone mad,” Val mused, watching him kiss a cucumber like a long-lost love.
