The next morning, I discovered a new horror: there was no toothpaste.
“Lin Yao,” I called from the bathroom, toothbrush dangling in my mouth, “where’s the toothpaste?”
A pause. Then her voice from the kitchen: “I used the last of it.”
“…Then why didn’t you buy more?”
“I was busy naming our balcony plant family. Priorities, husband.”
“Did you at least brush your teeth?”
“Don’t worry, I used mint-flavored lip balm. Same difference.”
I slowly lowered the toothbrush and contemplated brushing with dish soap.
Ten minutes later, I found myself in a convenience store at 7:40 in the morning, in yesterday’s hoodie, buying toothpaste and silently questioning all my life choices.
The cashier looked me up and down and said, “Rough night?”
I nodded. “I got married.”
She handed me a coupon and whispered, “Blink twice if you’re being held hostage.”
—
When I returned, Lin Yao was dancing in the kitchen with a spatula in one hand and my necktie around her head like a warrior band.
“Why are you like this?” I asked.
“I’m making breakfast!”
She pointed at the table. There were two burnt pieces of toast, a single slice of cheese, and a small bowl of cornflakes soaked in… was that soda?
“What is that?” I asked, pointing.
“Rebel cereal.”
“I’d rather starve.”
She crossed her arms. “Fine. Be a culinary coward.”
I grabbed my work bag and walked to the door.
“Wait!” she called out.
I turned. “Yes?”
“Can you buy cat food on your way back?”
“We don’t have a cat.”
She grinned. “Not yet.”
I left before I said something illegal.
—
By noon, she had already sent me five texts and three memes. One of the memes was a picture of a cat sitting in front of a microwave with the caption Me waiting for husband to love me back.
At 3:00 p.m., I received a voice message.
“Shen Xing. Emergency. I went to buy toilet paper and ended up accidentally entering a yoga class. Long story short, I’ve pulled something. Come rescue me. Bring snacks.”
I stared at the message for a full minute.
Then, like the responsible adult I was, I replied:
Me: No.
Her reply was instant.
Wifezilla Lin: Fine. I’ll just limp my way to your office and cry in front of your boss.
I stood up so fast my chair fell over.
—
When I got to the yoga studio, I found her sitting on the floor in sweatpants, dramatically clutching her ankle while sipping bubble tea.
“You don’t look injured,” I said.
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m emotionally injured.”
“I should’ve let you join that goat yoga class by mistake.”
“But then I wouldn’t have gotten this cute tea!”
I helped her up and walked her outside. She leaned on me with unnecessary weight, milking the situation like a professional.
“You smell like aftershave,” she muttered.
“You smell like bad decisions and mango.”
“Aw. Our marriage scent.”
—
That evening, we ended up grocery shopping together. A mistake.
“Do we really need seventeen types of noodles?” I asked.
“Obviously. What if I want ramen Monday, soba Tuesday, udon Wednesday, and existential dread Thursday?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Lin Yao…”
She turned toward me, holding up a box of frozen fish sticks. “These look like you when you’re mad.”
“What does that even mean?”
“They’re all stiff and sad.”
I looked around to make sure no one was filming us. The last thing I needed was to go viral on a couple meme page.
“Lin,” I said, “I swear if you put one more useless thing in the cart—”
“Oh look! Tiny umbrellas for drinks!”
She dropped them in.
I gave up.
—
At checkout, the cashier scanned our items, glanced at Lin Yao holding the fish sticks, then looked at me.
“She always like this?” he asked.
Lin Yao answered before I could. “Only when I’m awake.”
As we left, she looked up at me and said, “You know, for a grump, you’re not half bad.”
“For a gremlin, you’re not entirely unbearable,” I replied.
She smiled. “That’s basically marriage vows.”
I didn’t say anything, but as we walked home—her swinging the grocery bag like it was a purse and me quietly holding the umbrella over her when it started to rain—I realized something dangerous:
I might actually be getting used to her.
