Page 5 of Croc Food

“Bitsy, focus,” I said, remembering how they had all laughed at me today because of how weird my wife was. Zach had even hissed, good luck getting the promotion, bro.

“The lunches are a problem.”

“Wait, what do you mean?” she cried, and I had to steel myself against the shock in those big brown eyes.

“Now, you know I love your personality.”

My wife stilled, the smile slowly dropping off her face.

“Yes. What are you trying to say, Chadley?”

“Don’t get it wrong, I love your personality. When we’re together at home.”

Like a coward, I looked in the mirror as I pulled off my tie.

So I couldn’t see her face.

It wasn’t for very long. It was only temporary. It was just until I got the promotion.

There was silence for a moment as I pretended to fix my gelled hair.

“Oh. So I guess you mean you don’t want other people to know my personality?”

“Not—that, exactly. Just. Maybe you could tone it down a bit at that dinner.”

“In what way?”

Her normally sweet and bubbly voice was a bit frosty, but I pressed on.

“Like maybe we can take some of these Halloween decorations down. Maybe you can—like—wear something more traditional.”

“More traditional? Since when do you not like my clothes? What do you mean by traditional? Like a toga?”

There was silence for a moment as I stared over at what she’d made for supper. It looked like ravioli shaped like little sunshines.

“Not like a toga. Like a—housewife.”

More silence.

“I’m not a housewife, Chad.”

“I know you aren’t!” I said impatiently, turning away to undo the buttons on my shirt. “I’m just asking that maybe you act a little more like one so I can get this promotion. My boss is really big on traditional gender roles and having a housewife and shit like that.”

“What is a traditional wife?”

A bit hot in here, wasn’t it?

“Like. You know. Submissive. Deferential. Man’s home is his castle type of vibe. Makes everything from scratch.”

Bitsy said nothing, merely crossed her arms over her chest, her belly button ring poking out from under her shirt.

“And—about your lunches,” I plunged on.

“What about them?”

“If you want to pack me a lunch, can it just be a regular lunch?”

“Regular? I thought we both didn’t care what the hell other people thought.”