ElfinaJ

It is Sunday morning. I hear my wife’s voice call out “Pancakes are ready!” and in a drowsy stupor I shuffle to the kitchen table. We sit down. I pour sugar in my coffee and stir it. She busies herself with a newspaper, making no effort to acknowledge my presence. Why should she? There is no need to, and I do not acknowledge hers either. That is, until I take a closer look at my pancake, and am put in a position where it is very necessary to converse with my wife. “Honey?” I inquire. “Yes?” she responds. “Why is there a heart-shaped mark in the middle of my pancake?” She stares down at