Lenny Fisher slapped the alarm clock’s metal head and stumbled out of bed, padding barefoot to the kitchen. There, a shocking sight awaited him. Sitting at the dining table with one slender leg crossed over the other was Angelica. She wore nothing but a frilly lace apron—or rather, only the apron. The realisation made Lenny squeeze his eyes shut for a moment.
“Sweetheart, you’re awake!” Angelica fluttered off the stool like a butterfly and draped herself around his neck. “I made breakfast!”
“Really?” He eyed the fibrous lump on the plate. “What’s this?”
“Lenny darling, it’s steamed broccoli!”
Lenny had never eaten steamed broccoli. His breakfasts usually involved more practical fare.
“Maybe a bit of ketchup?” he suggested weakly, struggling to chew the tasteless mass.
But when Angelica’s perfect brows knitted together, he backtracked in a hurry. “Of course, love! No ketchup needed!”
*What did I do to deserve this?* he wondered, choking down the last bite. His thoughts weren’t about the broccoli, though—they were about the goddess perched on his chipped kitchen stool. *This nymph… This siren… My Beatrice…*
***
Lenny first saw Angelica at the theatre where he’d worked as a lighting technician for thirty years. One evening, while fixing a blown spotlight, he swept a test beam across the stage—and there she was. A delicate, almost translucent vision that lodged itself in his heart. From that moment, he could think of nothing else.
No, Lenny Fisher wasn’t the sort to chase skirts—odd for a man in the theatrical world. Backstage, a den of beauty and culture, Lenny was known for his quiet integrity. Perhaps the heavens rewarded such rare virtues by bestowing Angelica upon him.
***
After a hasty shave, Lenny dressed for work.
“Could you iron my shirt?” he ventured timidly.
But his “nymph-Beatrice” was engrossed in something divine—her smartphone.
“Sweetie, why don’t you do it yourself?” she purred, eyes fixed on the screen.
“Fine, I’ll manage.”
Not knowing where the iron hid at this hour, he smoothed his shirt with damp hands—a man’s solution. Grabbing his toolbox, he pecked Angelica (lounging on the sofa) and dashed off.
Only on the tram did Lenny realise something was wrong. A quick self-check confirmed it: his toolbox held no sandwiches wrapped in foil, no still-warm pasties.
*Ah well. I’ll grab something from the caff.*
***
“Sweetie, send me fifty quid. Nail appointment today!”
The text left Lenny baffled. Who knew nails cost so much? But despite his growling stomach, he didn’t want to disappoint.
*I’ll borrow from Dave if needed.*
He tapped “send.”
Thirty minutes before clocking off, another message arrived:
“Grab avocados and oat milk on your way home! Mwah!”
Of the listed items, Lenny only recognised “milk.” He wandered the supermarket aisles, lost, until a shopgirl took pity.
“How many avocados?” she asked, already striding toward produce.
Lenny hesitated. How many did people usually buy? Not wanting to seem clueless, he blurted, “Two kilos, please!”
At checkout, he sighed. *Dave it is.*
Lenny had always lent freely—never borrowed.
*First time for everything,* he thought, hauling the exotic haul home. *For a woman like her, I’ll swallow my pride.*
Angelica greeted him with open arms, shimmering in something sheer and floral.
“Lenny, I missed you!” she trilled as he stashed the avocados.
“What’s for dinner, love?” he asked, stomach rumbling.
Angelica clapped. “Dinner’s here!”
The intercom buzzed.
“Fetch it, would you? And pay the delivery man!”
*What costs this much and weighs nothing?* Lenny wondered, panting up the stairs. *More than a tyre!*
Back in the flat, he stared at the translucent container. Neat rows of unfamiliar food, dusted with green.
“What’s this?”
“Lenny! It’s sushi!” Angelica laughed. “Japanese delicacy—tuna, crab, octopus. Eat it with wasabi, ginger, and soy sauce!”
Lenny disliked it. But Angelica devoured most of the box, leaving him to peek hopefully in the fridge for stew. Finding none, he shuffled to bed.
***
Next morning, no breakfast waited. Angelica slept, golden hair fanned across the pillow.
“Sweetie, leave me eighty quid,” she mumbled. “Getting sugared today.”
Lenny’s first impulse was outrage—but what *was* sugaring? A medical thing?
“Of course, darling,” he said, trudging to the kitchen.
He poured oat milk into a bowl, scanning for additions. A stale slice of bread. The avocado from yesterday. He turned it in his hands—raw? Cooked?—then gave up.
“Off already?” Angelica yawned, glued to her phone.
“Yes. When’s your shift?”
She blinked. “Shift? Lenny, I’m your *wife* now. When I was single, I *had* to work. But you’re the provider! Your job is to bring home the bacon. Mine is to tend the hearth and inspire you!”
***
Lenny returned home irritable and exhausted. The kitchen offered only a lone, sad avocado. Angelica, glittering like a Christmas tree, painted her face at the mirror.
“Back? Quick, change! We’re clubbing—Argentinian DJ, foam party!”
“Angel, I’m knackered. Haven’t eaten properly in days.”
She turned slowly. “You’re *not* going?”
“No.”
“So this is your true self? Lock me up, drown me in chores—”
Lenny retreated to the kitchen. But Angelica pursued, shrieking:
“You’ve ruined my life! I’ll wither in this flat! What do I get from you? NOTHING!”
“Love, please—”
“Here’s your *bloody avocado*!” She hurled it at his face.
The impact brought pain, humiliation—and wakefulness.
***
The rickety bus spat Val Fisher onto the station platform with the other commuters. Adjusting her bags of garden spoils, she froze. Racing toward her was Lenny, clutching a massive bouquet of roses.
“Val, my love, I’ve missed you!” he cried, embracing her.
“Len, have you lost the plot?” she stammered, accepting the flowers.
“I just—you’re the best wife,” he said, taking her heavy bags.
Val melted. (She didn’t know he’d blown his savings on the bouquet, but never mind.)
At home, she arranged the roses in a plastic bucket—no vase big enough—and rolled up her sleeves.
“Lenny love, I’ll fry up some potatoes. With fresh cucumbers! They’re wonderful this year.”
“Aren’t they just?” Lenny agreed, unloading the fragrant, dewy produce.
*He’s definitely lost it,* Val mused, watching him kiss a cucumber.
