WARM JELLY

So Wifey and I are having a nice breakfast together, eggs, toast, and jam... eating in silence, of course, because that’s how we like it.  I prefer Smuckers Orange Marmalade, and she has her own apricot preserves.   When I finish, I take my spoon from the marmalade jar and lick it clean. She takes her own spoon from the apricot jar.   “Would you like this one too?” she offers. I lick the apricot spoon as well.  “That was warm,” says I.   “Yes, I just opened it. It wasn’t in the fridge,” says she turning back to the newspaper.    Minutes pass in silence, she reading, me staring. “You just fed me warm jelly,” I said at last.   “You can call 911 if you like,” says she, striking back with irony, litotes, sarcasm... or whatever you call that.   Why I don’t learn to keep my yap shut I’ll never know.   It was going to be that kind of day, and I slunk to my comfy chair as she went to her study to prepare lessons on sexual assault... her specialty.   Hours later I happened to be standing at the kitchen window watching blue jays fight over sunflower seeds at the feeder. Sometimes, because I’m absentminded, I muse aloud to myself.   “SHE MADE ME EAT WARM JELLY,” I heard myself say, as she entered the room silently behind me. By that time, of course, the apricot preserves had cooled nicely in the fridge. She made me eat the whole damn jar.