“I used to be able to eat like that,” Marc said, pointing to the waiter who was carrying a platter with a huge, mouthwatering burger and a bucket of crispy French fries to the table next to theirs. “Now look at me. I’m eating like a goddam rabbit,” he added, looking down at his salad.
“But you know what the doctor said,” his wife, Patti, said. “Do you want to have another heart attack?”
“Sometimes I wonder if life is worth living if you can’t eat what you enjoy,” Marc said. “My diet consists of salad and rice cakes, for crissake. I am not even supposed to add salt to give the crap I’m allowed to eat any taste.”
“I can fix healthy meals for you at home,” Patti said.
“But the kind of meals you’d fix for me are tasteless,” Marc told his wife. “How can you expect me to spend the rest of my life eating such bland food?”
“Well,” Patti angrily said, “maybe the same way you have expected me over the past thirty years to have such bland sex.”
“I thought you liked the missionary position.”
“As much as you like rice cakes.” Patti said.
Written for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practioner. Image credit: MorgueFile 1401035280bwq0a.