“You’re not wearing that.”
Those were the first words out of her mouth when I stepped out of the bedroom, freshly showered and dressed in my usual safe, professional combo—white button-down, charcoal slacks, black tie. Clean, respectable, appropriate.
Boring, apparently.
She stood in the hallway, arms crossed, a pair of ridiculous sunglasses perched on her head, wearing a pastel sundress like she had just walked out of a fashion blog.
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I asked, already sensing this was going to spiral into yet another pointless argument.
She looked me up and down like she was evaluating a used car with a dent in the side. “You look like you’re going to a business funeral.”
“It’s work.”
“It’s Tuesday.”
“And?”
“Tuesdays have feelings too, Shen Xing.”
I stared. “Are you… trying to personify weekdays now?”
“I’m just saying,” she said dramatically, flopping onto the couch, “that your wardrobe is a crime against romance.”
“I’m not trying to romance my coworkers.”
“Well, thank God for that.”
She stood up and grabbed my wrist, dragging me back into the bedroom like I was a child refusing to eat broccoli. She threw open the wardrobe with flair and began flipping through my clothes like a hurricane.
“No. No. Ew. Did this shirt wrong you in a past life? Burn this one. Okay, this one’s not bad—wait, why do you have three of the exact same sweater?”
“They’re different shades of gray.”
“They’re different shades of sadness.”
Eventually, she settled on a navy-blue shirt I had worn maybe once during a friend’s wedding rehearsal dinner. She tossed it at me like a grenade. “Put this on. Tuck it in. No tie. Roll the sleeves. Casual but hot. Trust me.”
“Trust you,” I repeated flatly.
“Do you have a better fashion consultant at home?”
I looked down at the shirt. “I don’t have another anything at home anymore. Just you.”
“Exactly!” she grinned. “One annoying wife, zero fashion crimes.”
—
At the office, people stared.
“New look?” one coworker asked.
“Did you lose a bet?” another teased.
And one intern actually did a double take. “Whoa, Mr. Shen looks… approachable today.”
Approachable? I am a mountain of professional efficiency, not some barista named Kai!
I told my wife that night about the reactions.
She was thrilled. “See? They noticed! Fashion can open hearts!”
“I don’t want to open hearts. I want to finish my reports.”
She leaned against the kitchen counter, smug. “You’re welcome.”
“For what?”
“For saving your reputation as a tragic fashion ghost.”
I sighed. “You’re turning my life into a drama.”
“Nope. A rom-com. With amazing outfits.”
—
Later that evening, she came to sit beside me on the couch, curling up with her legs tucked under her. “Hey, Shen Xing.”
“What now?”
“If we weren’t married… do you think we’d still be friends?”
I paused.
“No,” I said truthfully. “We’d be two very confused people yelling at each other in a coffee shop.”
She laughed. “So romantic.”
“But,” I added, “maybe you’d still drag me into trying weird sushi rolls and shopping for socks with cats on them.”
She smiled quietly and rested her head on my shoulder.
“You know what?” she murmured, “I think I kind of like being your wife. Even if you’re the most exasperating, emotionally unavailable man alive.”
“And I kind of like being married to an over-caffeinated hurricane.”
She looked up with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Flatterer.”
“Delusional.”
“Mine.”
“Unfortunately.”
She laughed again, and for a moment, the world felt stupidly peaceful.
