The Easter Egg

The Easter Egg

Frosty relations abound in the Rodgers den. I can hardly bring myself to write these words; my cupeth overfloweth with such fury. 

He ate my Reserve Easter Egg.

Allow me to clarify how this came to be in the middle of June:

I am forced to buy myself a Lindt egg every year because nobody gives me the correct egg and, contrary to popular belief, I am too polite in person to make formal requests. It is stowed carefully underneath the paid bills to be filed and the Wi-Fi router until the first truly autumnal day of the year, when we have a venison stew with mashed potato, and only a giant slab of Lindt and two handfuls of those little truffle eggs afterwards will do.

And he had the nerve...!

“You ate it?”

“Yes!”

“When?”

“Last week while I was watching the football and you were upstairs watching Great Anatomy.”

“Grey’s Anatomy.”

“What?”

“You ATE it?”

“Why is this a big deal? I’ll buy you another one.”

“You can’t ‘buy’ me another one. It’s an Easter egg and won’t be on sale again until next year.”

“Well, I’ll buy you a Twix.”

“I don’t want a fricking TWIX; I want my Lindt Easter egg.”

“Well I’ll buy you a box of Lindts then. God.”

And then he turned his back on me to load the dishwasher and I swear I could actually hear the eye roll so I stabbed him and buried his remains under the olive tree.

 

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