Shoving the flowers in a vase only took a second. Which was lucky on my part. No sooner did I finish filling it with water than Phil stepped into the kitchen. His eyes made it clear that he was mildly annoyed, but he still did his best to keep up the romantic act.

"Everything okay in here, Sweetness? You've been gone a minute."

"Ah, sorry. I think I got a little distracted looking at what you bought," I explained, setting the vase on the table. "You didn't mention you got wine."

He perked up a little at this. "Oh, yeah. I picked it up on the way home. It just didn't seem right to have a nice meal like this without some wine to complement it. Besides, I know how hard you work around here. You deserve a nice glass every now and again."

He said it casually enough, but his eyes gave him away. He kept glancing between me and the bottle as if willing me to open it. I guess he was hoping this would be his natural segway into suggesting an early dinner.

Lucky for him, I cared more about getting this whole charade over with than fucking with him today. I walked over and lifted the bottle, pretending to look at the label.

"Well, it seems a shame to leave it sitting out like this until dinner..." I said, playing my part in the skit he'd laid out. "Why don't we have a glass now?"

His eyes flashed as if he'd just won a major victory. "Sounds like a plan to me. Make mine a double."

I laughed at his terrible joke as I opened the bottle and poured us a couple of glasses. Did he win his little battle? Did he get me to drink the wine? Sure. But this is how wars are won. You lose the easy battles. You make those small sacrifices so your enemy doesn't expect much from you. Wait until their guard's down then hit them when they least expect it. My moment was coming, I just had to survive Phil's bullshit long enough to get there.

He took a small sip of the glass I handed him, letting out a satisfied sigh. I sipped my own wine, waiting patiently for him to psyche himself up for phase two of his "master plan."

Surprisingly, it took less time than I thought it would. I guess he was getting pretty impatient with all this himself. No sooner did I take a second sip than he was already moving towards the dining table. He picked up one of the containers as if in thought.

"You know... I know I said that we could just heat this up later, but it's a real pity not to eat such good food while it's still warm," he commented. "What do you say we have dinner now? It'll give us the chance to settle in early tonight."

And there it was. Phase two. I wasn't sure exactly how many more tricks Phil had up his sleeve, but he was a pretty standard "three phases" kind of guy when it came to planning. The end was near and by this point, I think we were both ready to just get it done and over with.

"Sounds good. I am kind of tired," I hinted. "Let me just get the plates."

While I mostly said it to give Phil an early clue that I wasn't up for his bullshit, I wasn't joking when I said I was tired. Not that I was surprised, of course. I'm pretty sure what Mason and I did earlier more than qualified as a workout. I was definitely going to be sore tomorrow.

"Well, hopefully, a nice meal will help to soothe your tired body," he said, letting me know that he wasn't going to back down that easily. "I picked up your favorite."

I had to repress a laugh of derision as I plated up the food. Sure. My favorite.

By this point, he honestly had me questioning if he did this kind of thing on purpose just to test me, or if he really was that fucking clueless about what I liked. Because I really couldn't think of any other explanations for how he kept getting it this wrong.

First, the place he ordered from wasn't even one of my favorite restaurants. Second, I didn't like balsamic vinegar, and half the food was covered in it. And third, and most importantly, I was allergic to pears.

Yet, what was sitting in one of the containers? Fresh, crisp, and waiting to be eaten? A nice, light salad. With thin, sliced pears clearly visible on the top.

Was I going to make a big scene out of it? No. That would only work against me later. However, I certainly wasn't above a little bit of petty passive-aggression.

I left the salad exactly where it was. Pristine and untouched. I didn't even move it to a bowl. Then, to really drive home my point, I set the whole thing, container and all, directly in front of Phil.

His eyes widened in surprise as he watched me pick up the other empty containers. "Oh, are you not going to serve the salad?"

"Huh? Why would I? It's yours, right?" I asked, feigning ignorance. "Why? Do you want me to move it to a bowl for you?"

"You're not going to eat any salad?"

"Of course not."

Maybe it was my matter-of-fact way of saying it, or maybe he finally picked up on what I was doing, but either way, I could see his facade slip a bit. Annoyance flashed briefly on his face before he managed to compose himself.

"Why not? I think you'd like it. A lot of the guys around the office say their wives are crazy about it," he insisted in that same sickly sweet tone.

"Oh, I'm sure it's delicious. I just can't eat it," I explained shrugging.

"And why not?"

There he was. There was the real Phil. The typical, conceited man that I married. So fragile and desperate for control that even something as small as rejecting a salad was enough to make him crack. And I was about to shatter him.

"Sweetheart, did you forget? I'm allergic to pears," I said in my sweetest fake voice.

It took a minute for my words to really sink in, but once they did the Cassanova facade slipped away in an instant. He lowered his eyes to the table, cheeks burning with humiliation. After all, it was a serious blow to his precious ego.

I mean, something like choosing the wrong restaurant or ordering the wrong dish? That wasn't too bad. It's not like he'd be the first husband to do it and he wouldn't be the last. It could easily be written off as an honest mistake.

But ordering a dish with something your wife has already explained, on multiple occasions, that she is allergic to? Now that was something shameful. The bare minimum that any good husband should know about his wife: her allergies. And the last thing he would ever do was admit that he was anything less than the perfect husband. He couldn't admit it.

"Couldn't you just pick around them?" He grumbled, still refusing to look at me.

"No, if the juices got anywhere on it, then I could still have a reaction," I answered honestly. "Which is likely since it was probably shaking around in the car while you were driving."

Nothing I said was a lie. I was allergic to pears and I could get a reaction from eating the salad. That said, the reaction wasn't much to worry about. My face would get a little red and splotchy and my throat would be itchy, but nothing that a couple of allergy meds and lying down for an hour or two couldn't fix.

Still, that didn't negate the fact that it was a huge mistake. And one that he shouldn't be making at this point in our marriage. He was lucky we were alone right now. If this had happened at a dinner party or one of his company's events, then it definitely would have started some whispers.

But we were alone now. Which is probably why he was able to brush it off so easily.

The fake, cheesy smile returned to his face in an instant. "Ah, you're right. I'm sorry, Dear. It won't happen again."

Sure. "Won't happen again." Like this wasn't already the third or fourth time something like this had happened. And I was sure there would be a fifth. And probably even a sixth and seventh. In fact, it would probably just keep happening again and again until something happened to force him to remember. Something where people who mattered might see.

As annoying as that fact was, I didn't comment on it. Instead, I choked down my food in silence.

A little longer. Just a little longer. He'd whip out phase three of his plan soon, I'd shut it down, and then I could spend the rest of the night in peace while he angrily avoided me.

I knew that was how things would go. Since the first second he spoke to me in that honeyed voice and tried to play the romantic, I knew that he had something planned that I wasn't going to like. And I knew I was going to reject him too. None of what had happened so far was surprising to me.

Yet, strangely, those gloomy storm clouds from earlier seemed to be gathering over my head again.

Why was that though? This situation wasn't too out of the ordinary for us. I mean, it's not like this kind of thing happened every day, but it wasn't exactly uncommon either. By now, I was used to Phil's cheap, Halloween mask brand of personality and his cold, uncaring behavior. I was practically numb to them even.

So, why did I suddenly find that fact so depressing?

As I glanced down at the over-priced, mediocre food on my plate, Mason's face came to mind. I smiled, remembering our lunch together.

Now that was how you shared a meal with somebody. No bullshit romance, no fancy garbage. Just two people who genuinely enjoyed each other's company sharing some good food and fun conversation.

Maybe that's why Phil's loving husband act bothered me so much today. Not because I wanted him to start acting like one or anything, but just because I'd finally seen what things could be like when somebody actually bothered to care about me.

In just one afternoon, Mason had already shown me more genuine kindness, understanding, and vulnerability than Phil had shown me in our entire relationship. Not to mention how much fun we had together.

Talking, flirting, making stupid jokes. Even without the sex, he was fun to be around. He made me want to see him again. So much so that I missed him after just a couple of hours.

Meanwhile, I felt like I could go a couple of decades without seeing Phil and still not miss him. I mean, when was the last time Phil had even attempted to make our time together enjoyable? To really make me laugh? To compliment me honestly? To plan something nice for us?

I grimaced as I glanced again at my plate. His pitiful attempt at a romantic evening together.

Honestly, it wasn't even the food that bothered me. Or the salad for that matter. In fact, I would have happily overlooked it all in a heartbeat. After all, it's the thought that counts, right?

But that was the problem. The thought he put into it. Because this wasn't Phil trying his best. This wasn't his attempt to be a good husband and create a romantic evening for us. This wasn't him showing that he loved me. For him, this was all just a means to an end. A way to get what he wanted from me. A trade, a transaction, a business deal.

I was a commodity. Not a wife.

"Ah! I just remembered," he said suddenly. "I left something in my jacket pocket. Could you please grab it for me, Dear?"

Terrible performance. Unconvincing. Two out of five stars.

However, that probably meant that we were finally entering phase three of his master plan. Which meant that it would be better to just suck it up and do what he asked so we could finally get this whole charade of a "date night" over with.

I smiled at him, using my sweetest voice. "Sure. I'll be right back."

Almost over. Almost over. I repeated to myself as I walked to the entryway. I just had to grab whatever this "special item" was and then it would finally be over.

I dug around in his pockets, relief slowly starting to fill my body as I did. The end was so close that I could almost feel it. And then, I did feel it. Strangely enough though, "the end" felt like a small cardboard box.

I pulled it out, confused. But only until I saw the label.

I didn't think it was possible to speedrun the five stages of grief, but somehow, I managed to do it all in the span of thirty seconds. Although, I wouldn't exactly call what I landed on "acceptance." It was more along the lines of "arriving at what I probably knew all along was the expected result."

There, in my hands, was a small box of condoms. Unfortunate, but not surprising considering the way Phil had been acting today.

But there was something else surprising about the box. Something that I never would have expected to see. Something that worried me and terrified me in a way that I never thought Phil was capable of.

The box was unwrapped.