On a bright Saturday morning, sunlight poured through the kitchen windows, sparkling off the countertops. The rich scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the mouthwatering smell of bacon sizzling on the stove. A woman bustled about, preparing breakfast, and glanced over at her husband who sat at the table, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“Would you like some bacon and eggs?” she asked cheerfully. “I’ve got a slice of toast ready, and some freshly squeezed grapefruit juice to go with your coffee.”
He lifted his head slowly, offering a small shrug. “Thanks for asking,” he replied in a soft, dreamy voice, “but I’m really not hungry right now.”
She tilted her head in surprise. He usually loved breakfast. “Not hungry?” she echoed, spooning eggs onto her plate.
He nodded, shifting in his chair. “It’s the Viagra,” he admitted with a sheepish grin. “It’s totally killed my appetite. I honestly feel like I could skip meals for a whole week.”
She raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to laugh or roll her eyes. “Well, I guess I’ll eat the bacon then,” she said, sliding a plate toward herself. “Enjoy your…uh…medicine.”
By lunchtime, she’d prepared a modest meal: a warm bowl of homemade soup, muffins cooling on a rack, and a simple cheese sandwich. Setting the table, she looked at him expectantly.
“Would you like something to eat now?” she asked, pouring water into his glass. “Maybe some soup, a muffin, or a sandwich?”
He waved her off wearily. “No thanks,” he said again. “Still the Viagra. It’s really taken away my hunger. I just don’t feel like eating.”
She chuckled nervously, unsure whether to tease or just let it go. “Alright then,” she muttered, poking at her own soup. “I suppose I’ll eat.”
Hours passed, the sun dipped toward the horizon, and evening came. The kitchen buzzed with activity—the oven humming, chopping boards scattered with vegetables, and the smell of roasting meat filling the air. She’d prepared a feast, imagining how his eyes would light up at the sight of rib-eye steak, apple pie cooling on the counter, roasted chicken, and a colorful stir-fry.
She looked across the table at him reclining comfortably and asked, “Would you like anything for dinner? Steak? Apple pie? Rotisserie chicken? Or a veggie stir-fry?”
He sighed, shaking his head slowly. “No,” he said in a low, almost hypnotic voice. “It must be the Viagra. I’m still not hungry.”
She paused mid-chop, knife in hand, staring at him. Then her patience snapped. “Well,” she said, stepping closer, voice sharp but amused, “would you mind getting off me? I’m starving.”
There was a moment of silence as he blinked, suddenly catching the double meaning. She rolled her eyes, muttering something about “all this food going to waste,” and grabbed a plate of steak for herself.
What began as a simple breakfast question had turned into a daylong saga: meals ignored, appetites spoiled, and a wife learning that sometimes, humor—and hunger—are the best cures.
