**Why Cecil No Longer Tells His Wife What He Wants for Dinner**
“Dont you ever ask what Id like for dinner anymore?” Cecil remarked one morning as he prepared to leave for work. “Or does it not matter to you now?”
“I thought Id make something of my own choosing,” Edith replied indifferently. “But if youd prefer something specific, I suppose I could manage.”
“Thats not the point,” Cecil said. “Its not about what I do or dont want. Its the principle of it. Is it really so hard to ask? Dont you care at all?”
“If Im honest, no,” Edith admitted. “Not in the slightest. Whats so interesting about it?”
“Well, I never!” Cecil exclaimed. “Weve come to this, have we? You used to ask. So I suppose it *was* interesting back then!”
Edith paused, considering.
*Hmm*, she thought. *Hes right, I did ask before. How awkward. Best humour him, or hell go on about it all day.*
“What would you like for dinner, then?” she asked.
Cecil smirked.
*Doing me a favour now, is she? Fine. No need to be petty. Marriage is built on compromise, after all. Ill be the bigger manno need to fuss over trifles. Im not some tyrant. Forgiveness is what keeps us decent, isnt it?*
“Alright,” he said magnanimously. “Ill have some meat pies.”
“What sort?” Edith inquired. “Pork, lamb, or beef? Or perhaps youd like fish pies?”
“Anything but fish!” Cecil groaned. “Are you having me on? You know Ive loathed fish pies since I was a boy.”
*Oh, drat*, Edith thought. *Whats wrong with me today? Scatterbrained as a pigeon. Hes told me a dozen times how he choked on those wretched fish pies in school. Dragged that story out every chance he got. Now Ive blundered. Better smooth it over, or hell harp on it all week. And dont forgethe hates blancmange too.*
“What about the sides?” she asked quickly. “Potatoes, pasta, or rice? Or maybe some peas?”
“Roast potatoes,” Cecil decided. “And make them crisp, not soggy.”
“Of course, dear,” Edith said. “Crisp it is, dont you worry.”
“Im not worried,” Cecil said airily. “Youre the one who ought to worry.”
*Now why did I say that?* he scolded himself. *Trying to prove a point? Couldnt resist a dig. Whats the use? Still, Ive a long way to go before Im half the man I ought to be.*
“If its not too much trouble, love,” he added gently, “a salad with tomatoes and cucumber would be nice.”
“Certainly, darling,” Edith cooed. “Anything you like.”
“With garlic and parsley,” he reminded her.
“Garlic and parsley,” she echoed with a smile.
“And a dollop of cream.”
“Cream it is.”
“And roast the potatoes with onions too,” Cecil added.
“Everything just as you fancy, dear,” Edith assured him.
With a warm farewell, Cecil left for work, but his mind lingered on Ediths odd behaviour. Something was amiss, though he couldnt place it. All day, he was distracted, puzzling over her indifference.
*Never mind*, he consoled himself. *Ill have a proper talk with her tonight. Maybe Ive upset her without realising. Best sort it out now before it festers.*
At dinner, Cecil pushed his meat pies and roast potatoes around his plate, watching as Edith devoured a golden-brown roast chicken. She slathered it in gravy, tearing off generous bites with evident relish, all while grinning at him.
“So,” Cecil said slowly. “Why are you eating roast chicken when Im stuck with these pies?”
“Fancied a bit of chicken tonight,” Edith said cheerfully. “When you mentioned pies, I realised I didnt want themchicken sounded much nicer. Roasted with garlic, too. Youve no idea how good it is. Is there a problem?”
“No, but” Cecil frowned. “I thought wed both be having the same thing.”
*Oh, you sweet fool*, Edith mused. *Thought Id suffer through your dreary pies? Whatever gave you that idea?*
“Sorry, love,” she said, mouth full. “I just thought itd be nice if we each had what we liked. You eat your pies, Ill eat my chicken. Perfect, isnt it?”
“Charming,” Cecil muttered. “Could I have some chicken too? It does look rather good.”
“No,” Edith said. “I only made enough for myself. But youve all the pies, salad, and roast potatoes to yourself. Eat up, dear. Enjoy!”
“But youve a whole drumstick left!” Cecil protested. “Ill share my pies”
“That ones mine,” Edith said firmly. “Made two just for me. Dont want your pies. Eat them yourself.”
Cecil chewed glumly, watching enviously as Edith polished off the second drumstick. The way she savoured each bite made his own meal stick in his throat.
“I roasted it extra crisp,” she announced. “That crunch is divine. Oh, youd love it.”
“Im sure,” Cecil mumbled.
He forced a smile, finishing the last of his pies.
Next morning, as he prepared to leave, Edith asked sweetly, “What shall I make for dinner, darling?”
“Roast chicken,” Cecil declared. “Dreamt of the blasted thing all night. Make it just like yours. No sidesjust gravy.”
“Of course, dear,” Edith said.
That evening, Cecil picked at his chicken without much appetite. Because there sat Edith, tucking into a steaming lamb stew.
“Its best piping hot,” she said happily. “Could eat this every day. Always loved lamb stewreminds me of childhood.”
The week continued this way, with Edith serving up one tempting dish after another while Cecil endured his own meals. The final straw came when she tucked into fried whitebait.
“I want whitebait too,” Cecil whined.
“Why didnt you say so this morning?” Edith said, surprised. “Ive gone and made you chops.”
“How was I to know Id want whitebait?” Cecil grumbled. “You mightve given a hint.”
“I didnt know myself till supper,” Edith said.
“Let me have just a bit,” he pleaded.
“Not a chance,” Edith said sternly. “What would I eat? Your chops? No, thank you.”
Next morning, as she bid him farewell, Edith asked what hed like for dinner. Cecil shook his head firmly.
“No,” he said. “You wont trick me again, love. Thats quite enough. Had your fun. Whatever you make for yourself, make double for me too.”
From that day on, Cecil never again told Edith what he wanted for dinner.
