A woman was bustling around the kitchen one bright Saturday morning, sunlight streaming through the windows and glinting off the countertops. The smell of fresh coffee filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of sizzling bacon that had just started on the stove. She turned to her husband, who was still rubbing sleep from his eyes at the breakfast table, and asked cheerfully,
“Would you like some bacon and eggs? I also have a slice of toast ready, and maybe some freshly squeezed grapefruit juice to go with your coffee?”
He lifted his head lazily and gave a small shrug. “Thanks for asking,” he said in a low, somewhat dreamy tone, “but I’m really not hungry right now.”
She tilted her head, a little surprised, because he usually loved breakfast. “Not hungry?” she repeated, spooning some eggs onto a plate for herself.
He nodded, shifting slightly in his chair. “It’s this Viagra,” he admitted, with a sheepish grin. “It’s really taken the edge off my appetite. Honestly, I feel like I could skip meals for a week.”
She raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to laugh or roll her eyes. “Well, I suppose I’ll eat the bacon then,” she said, sliding a plate toward herself. “Enjoy your…uh…medication.”
By lunchtime, she had prepared a small, wholesome spread: a warm bowl of homemade soup, freshly baked muffins cooling on a rack, and a simple but satisfying cheese sandwich. She set the table and looked at her husband expectantly.
“Would you like something to eat this time?” she asked, pouring a little water into his glass. “Maybe a bowl of soup, a muffin, or a sandwich?”
He waved her off with a tired hand. “No, thanks,” he said again. “Still the Viagra. It’s…well, it’s really spoiled my need for food. I just don’t feel like eating anything.”
She chuckled nervously, unsure whether to tease him or just let it go. “Alright then,” she muttered, poking at her own soup. “I suppose I’ll eat.”
The hours went by, the sun dipped lower in the sky, and soon evening arrived. The kitchen had transformed into the hub of dinner preparation: the oven hums, the chopping board scattered with vegetables, and the aroma of roasting meat filling the entire house. She had prepared a decadent spread, imagining how his eyes would light up at the sight of a juicy rib-eye steak, golden apple pie cooling nearby, a perfectly roasted chicken, and a fragrant stir-fry.
She looked at him across the table, now reclining comfortably, and asked, “Would you like anything for dinner? A rib-eye steak, maybe some apple pie afterward? Or how about rotisserie chicken, or a stir-fry with all the veggies you like?”
He sighed softly, shaking his head again. “No,” he replied in a slow, almost hypnotic tone. “It’s got to be the Viagra. I’m still not hungry.”
She paused mid-chop, knife in hand, and stared at him for a long moment. Then her patience broke, her voice sharp but laced with exasperation: “Well,” she said, stepping closer, “would you mind getting off me? I’m bloody starving.”
There was a beat of silence as he blinked at her, suddenly realizing the double meaning of her words. She rolled her eyes, muttered something about “all that food going to waste,” and grabbed a plate of steak for herself. The dinner table had transformed into a battlefield where one person’s appetite was literally being held hostage by…well, the effects of a little blue pill.
And so, what started as a simple morning question about breakfast had turned into a full-day saga of meals ignored, appetites spoiled, and one very hungry wife learning that sometimes, humor—and hunger—are the best remedies.