Funny stories in under 500 words.

When A Man Loves A Cookie



It was a dark and stormy night. Seriously. I don’t know how else to describe it without consulting Roget’s. Anyhow, I have the place to myself. Monica, my oft-beloved bride, organized a girl’s night out. That means NFL on the big screen, arguing with idiots on my laptop, and cheating at Sudoku. The pizza should be delivered prior to kickoff, followed by a bowl (or two) of Frosted Flakes at halftime. Cold beer will remain ubiquitous throughout. And if willpower holds out, I will save the best for the last quarter—three full sleeves of Carr’s Ginger Lemon Crème cookies.

The game quickly devolves into a defensive slugfest. So I end up on Reddit embroiled in a reasonably stimulating debate. I’m midway through castigating the derivative nature of Coldplay when the house phone rings. Apparently we still have one of those, and an answering machine too. When I recognize the voice I snatch up the handset. “Stephanie?”

“Oh, hey Adam. How’s it going?” Before I can make up an answer she adds, “Monica there?”

“Monica?”

“Your wife? Brown hair? Hazel eyes? Obnoxiously good figure?”

“Isn’t she with you?”

“Wait…right. Yeah, she’s…I’m just running late, that’s all. In fact, that’s why I’m calling. To let her know that I’m running late?”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Can you just tell her for me?”

“Why didn’t you call her cell?”

“I meant to. Look…never mind, I’ll call her myself.”

“She’ll tell me eventually, Stephanie. She always does.”

“What are you—? I gotta go.”

Monica flirted with her first boss, made out with her second, and beat a hasty pre-coital retreat from a hotel with the third. The guilt lasts a couple of months, but she usually ends up with a raise. There’s a part of me that wishes she would just cheat already. For just once in my life I’d like to take in the view from the moral high ground. But alas, I guess I’m stuck with a faithful wife.

The Coldplay fan is gone, and I’m a little depressed so I decide to dig into my stash a little early.

The box is there but the cookies are not. Instead there’s a note.

I’m sorry, Adam. I just can’t do this any more.

I don’t rage. My proclivity is to burn slow, and hot. It’s just inconceivable to me that Monica would stoop to this after all we’ve been through. It takes a moment but I gather my wits and head to the bedroom, specifically to my gun safe. I spin the combination and reach past my 0.38 for my trusty backup stash of Carr’s. That’s when I hear the voice purring behind me.

It’s Monica, tangled seductively in satin sheets with a dab of lemon crème on her upper lip. Her obnoxiously good figure is completely bare save for a few strategically placed wafers. I have to admit, the sex seems like it’ll be a lot of work, but the cookies should definitely be worth it.

This story was written by Michael Snyder. Michael lives in middle Tennessee with his amazing wife and children. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The First Line; Cease, Cows; Everyday Fiction; Greater Sum; Relief Journal; Lit.Cat; and various other online haunts. His first three novels were published by Harper Collins/Zondervan. Michael is not a big fan of reading his own work.




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