Jonny hated mornings, but he hated his wife Peony’s terrifying driving even more, which is exactly how they ended up at Dotty’s Diner for the third time that week.
Stabbing his breakfast with a butter knife, Jonny grumbled, “Burnt again. We’ve been coming to this place for forty years. Same table, same waitress, and the exact same lousy toast.”
Peony didn’t even look up from her crossword puzzle. “Yet you keep ordering it every single time, genius.”
Patty, their long-time waitress, poured his coffee without flinching. “Want me to go yell at the cook for you, Jonny?”
“Nah, don’t bother,” Jonny sighed. “At this point, I’m convinced the cook and my wife are in a joint competition to test my absolute will to live.”
Peony took a calm sip of her tea. “Honey, if I were actually testing your will to live, I’d just leave the car keys out where you could find them.”
Jonny narrowed his eyes. “You know, some lucky husbands actually get breakfast in bed.”
“And some men get served cold toast and hard truths,” Peony smiled sweetly. “Consider yourself lucky I didn’t spit in your jelly packet.”
Jonny stared down at the blackened bread on his plate. “…Still tastes better than your homemade meatloaf.”
Peony leaned across the booth, her voice dropping to a calm, dangerous whisper: “That’s funny. I was just sitting here thinking about how peaceful and quiet your funeral is going to be without all this meatloaf drama.”
Patty the waitress leaned over from the counter, looked at Jonny, and whispered:
“So, folks… want me to bring him the breakfast check, or should I just go grab a shovel?”
