Matthew's Mistake

"I don't know why I bother, I slave away all day only for you to come home and throw it all back in my face!" she waved a finger threateningly at him. "Next time you can have beans on bloody toast!"

"Can you not bleed on the toast please" Deep within himself, Matthew had known that silence was the best (and probably only) safe course of action, but the opportunity had been too good to let pass by. She raised her head slowly and stared back with quiet, deadly calm.

"Pardon?" He weighed his options. To back down now would be to admit defeat; he had taken the first step, he told himself. He was committed.

"You said "Beans on bloody toast" and I said "could you not bleed on my toast, please", you see, I don't want my toast bloody," The hand that was holding her knife shook gently; he gathered himself and attempted to sip nonchalantly from his glass of wine.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Matthew. If you don't want you toast bloody, how do you want it?" She gazed innocently at him, though something told him it would be unwise to trust those eyes. He reviewed the situation; the question was loaded with hazard. He had, he realised, got in further than he had intended. He was deep in enemy territory and the Vietcong were closing in fast. The smallest bead of sweat announced itself on his brow and he wiped it off nervously, sensing a trap. He would have to be very careful, tripwires and proximity mines surrounded his position. She probed him further.

"Matthew? You didn't answer my question? How do you want you toast if not bloody?"...He tried. He failed. He broke...

"I want it well done,"

Game Over. She inhaled deeply and as she did Matthew realised that, despite his initial hopes, this would never become one of those incidents which they'd "laugh about in years to come". He felt almost sad, it had been a good joke and now it would go to waste.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realise you were so particular about such things. In future I'll make more of an effort to administer to your needs. There was me thinking you'd be in the mood for a nice bowl of pasta, and all you really wanted was some beans on top of a lump of charred bread,"

"Well there's no need for chagrin, don't worry about it," He chanced a glance at her over the salad bowl; the pun had landed. There comes a point in any conflict when one side realises that they have lost, and the projected casualties are so extreme that all reserve goes out the window. Matthew was confident this point had been achieved. Indeed, until his mother-in-law was mentioned he was sure that the amount of damage he could cause had reached it's terminus.

"Chargrin?"

"It mean's..."

"I. Know. What. It. Means. Matthew." Their marriage, still a young one, had yet to witness its first argument - Matthew silently lamented that this would probably be their last "first". The point of no return far behind them, he decided to sit back, relax and enjoy this, their final milestone.

"I will give you one chance to apologise Matthew, and if you don't take it I don't quite know how I'll react," She looked at him measuredly.

"Well I'm just as excited to find out as you are, my sweet,"

It was a subdued and sleep-deprived Matthew that rolled into work the next morning. His eyes bore the tell-tale rings of a restless night, and he was irritable and short tempered. His colleagues couldn't help but notice the bruise that circled his left eye but they refused to comment on it, even though, if one looked extremely closely, the letters " ...hn Lewis" could be seen beaten into it.