I woke up to the sound of loud humming.
Not birds. Not music. Not the neighbor’s dog.
It was her.
“Hmmm–mmm–mmMMM–hmmmm!”
I cracked open one eye to see my wife—my legally-wedded disaster—standing at the foot of our bed, brushing her teeth with her phone on speaker, blasting a K-pop song, while doing what could only be described as interpretive dance.
“Why are you like this?” I muttered, voice still heavy with sleep.
She stopped mid-floss-spin, tilted her head, and gave me a sparkling grin with her foam-filled mouth. “Morning, hubby!”
I stared at her, half-draped in my blanket, wondering if signing that marriage certificate had somehow cursed me.
She continued, brushing even more dramatically. “You said I could wake you up by 7:30. It’s 7:28. I’m early. That means I get points!”
“Points? What kind of twisted game are you playing?”
She wiped her mouth and leaned in close, resting her elbows on the bed. “The game of marriage! And I’m winning.”
“No one’s keeping score!” I groaned, rolling onto my side.
She gasped. “That’s what losers say!”
I buried my face in the pillow and tried to ignore her footsteps as she marched around the room narrating her morning routine like she was filming a vlog.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, we apply sunscreen because taking care of your skin is vital even if your grumpy husband doesn’t think so!”
I raised my hand from under the blanket and gave her a thumbs-down.
She giggled.
—
By 8:00 AM, I was sitting at the breakfast table with a cup of black coffee and toast. She had made omelets. Burned, barely recognizable omelets. One looked like a fried shoe.
“I made it with love,” she said cheerfully.
“Did you also cook it with a flamethrower?”
She slapped my shoulder lightly and grinned. “Eat. Or I’ll feed it to you bite by bite while whispering sweet nothings.”
I stared at the charred edge. I took a bite.
It… actually wasn’t that bad.
She watched me intently. “Well? Is it terrible?”
I swallowed and gave her a nod. “Terribly okay.”
Her face lit up like the sun. “You’re so sweet when you insult me kindly!”
—
We took the subway together that morning. She had work near my office, and despite my efforts to go separately, she insisted we be a “power couple” and arrive together.
She talked the whole ride.
About the new anime she was watching.
About how she thought the cat across the street might be pregnant.
About how she read that drinking water upside-down might cure hiccups.
I responded with grunts, head nods, and the occasional, “Huh.”
“You’re lucky I love the sound of my own voice,” she said, poking my cheek.
I muttered, “I’m lucky you’re not banned from public transport for being a noise hazard.”
She laughed like I’d told the best joke in the world. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a thermos.
“Here. I made you iced coffee. With just the right amount of sugar and milk. I Googled your favorite ratio.”
I blinked.
“You… Googled my coffee preferences?”
She smiled. “I had to. You’re too emotionally repressed to just tell me.”
I took the coffee, sipped it.
Perfect.
She leaned against my shoulder with a triumphant smirk. “Say thank you.”
“…Thanks.”
“Say I’m amazing.”
“Push your luck any further and you’ll be walking home.”
She beamed. “So romantic!”
—
As we walked out of the station, I looked at her bouncing beside me, eyes full of mischief, hands waving as she told another story.
Was she annoying?
Absolutely.
But somehow, in some twisted, illogical way… her chaos was growing on me.
Which was probably even more annoying.
