**Why Christopher No Longer Tells His Wife What He Wants for Dinner**
*”Why dont you ask what Id like for dinner anymore?”* Christopher muttered as he buttoned his coat, glaring at his wife before heading to work. *”Or does it not matter to you now?”*
*”I thought Id make something nice,”* Emily replied flatly, not looking up from her tea. *”But if you insist, I can cook whatever you prefer.”*
*”Thats not the point,”* Christopher snapped. *”Its not about what I wantits the fact you cant even be bothered to ask. Doesnt it interest you at all?”*
*”Honestly?”* Emily sighed. *”No. Not in the slightest. Whats so interesting about it?”*
*”Oh, really?”* Christopher scoffed. *”How charming. You used to ask. So it *was* important back then!”*
Emily hesitated. *”Hmm. Hes right. I did. Awkward. Best just ask him, or hell never let it go.”*
*”Fine,”* she said at last. *”What do you want for dinner?”*
A smug grin curled Christophers lips. *”Shes doing me a favour now. Whatever. I wont be petty. Marriage is compromise, after all. Ill be the bigger mangracious, forgiving. Not some controlling brute. We must rise above, mustnt we?”*
*”Alright,”* he conceded. *”Shepherds pie.”*
*”With beef or lamb?”* Emily pressed. *”Or I could make fish pie if youd like?”*
*”Anything but fish!”* Christopher groaned. *”Are you joking? You know Ive hated fish pie since school. The smell alone”*
Emily winced. *”Foot in mouth again. Why today? Hes told me a dozen times about that awful school dinner. Now hell bring it up all week. Ohand remember, he despises custard too.”*
*”What about the sides?”* she asked quickly. *”Mashed potatoes? Peas? Or maybe carrots?”*
*”Roast potatoes,”* Christopher demanded. *”Crispy. Not soggy.”*
*”Of course, darling,”* Emily chirped. *”Crispy it is.”*
*”Not that Im worried,”* Christopher added smugly. *”Youre the one who should be.”*
He instantly regretted it. *”Why did I say that? Trying to prove a point? Now I sound like a right prat. Still a long way to go before Im a decent man, isnt there?”*
*”If its not too much trouble, love,”* he softened his tone, *”could you do a tomato and cucumber salad? With a bit of garlic and parsley?”*
*”Of course, darling.”*
*”And sour cream.”*
*”Sour cream,”* Emily echoed, forcing a smile.
*”And fry the potatoes with onions too.”*
*”Anything you want,”* she said sweetly.
Christopher kissed her goodbye, but all day, unease gnawed at him. Something was off. Emily wasnt herself. *”Tonight,”* he resolved. *”Well talk. Maybe Ive upset her without realising. Must make it right before its too late.”*
At dinner, Christopher poked listlessly at his shepherds pie, watching as Emily devoured a golden-brown roast chicken. She slathered it in gravy, tearing off juicy chunks with relish, grinning as she chewed.
*”Right,”* Christopher said slowly. *”Why are you eating chicken?”*
*”Fancied it,”* Emily said, mouth full. *”When you said shepherds pie, I suddenly craved roast chicken. Garlic and thyme. Divine. Youd love it.”*
*”But”* Christophers fork hovered. *”I thought we were having the same thing.”*
*”Oh, sweetheart,”* Emily mused inwardly. *”As if Id suffer through your dreary pie.”* Aloud, she said, *”Sorry, love. You cook what you like, Ill cook what I like. Fairs fair, yeah?”*
*”Brilliant,”* Christopher muttered. *”Can I have some chicken?”*
*”No,”* Emily said cheerfully. *”Made just enough for me. But youve got all that lovely pie! And your salad. And roast potatoes. Tuck in, darling!”*
He stared as she crunched into a drumstick, the crisp skin crackling. His pie turned to ash in his mouth.
*”Extra crispy,”* Emily sighed. *”Just perfect.”*
*”Lovely,”* Christopher mumbled, forcing the last bite down.
The next morning, as he left for work, Emily beamed. *”What would you like for dinner, love?”*
*”Roast chicken,”* Christopher said firmly. *”Exactly how you made yours. No sides. Just gravy.”*
*”Of course, darling.”*
That evening, Christopher picked at his chicken, appetite gonebecause Emily was devouring a steaming beef stew.
*”Oh, its heavenly when its hot,”* she gushed. *”Could eat this forever. Always loved stew.”*
All week, Christopher endured her culinary taunts. The final straw came when she fried up plaice, the smell torturing him as he pushed around his steak.
*”I want plaice too,”* he whinged.
*”Shouldve said this morning!”* Emily laughed. *”I made you steak for nothing.”*
*”How was I supposed to know?”*
*”I didnt either!”*
*”Just give me a bite”*
*”Not a chance,”* Emily said sternly. *”Eat your steak.”*
The next morning, when she asked what he wanted for dinner, Christopher shook his head.
*”No,”* he said flatly. *”Youve had your fun. From now on, we eat the same thingand youd better make enough.”*
And from that day on, Christopher never told Emily what he wanted for dinner again.
