Paul woke up with his head pounding like a drum after his company’s Christmas party. His mouth felt like sandpaper, and he had absolutely no memory of how he got home. Dreading what he might’ve done, he cracked one eye open—then froze. On the bedside table were two aspirin, a glass of water, and… a red rose.
Blinking in confusion, Paul sat up. His clothes were neatly folded and pressed at the foot of the bed. The room sparkled — not a sock out of place. When he made it to the bathroom, though, his reflection told a different story: a massive black eye. Above the sink was a note written in red with tiny hearts and a lipstick kiss that said, “Honey, breakfast is on the stove. I went grocery shopping for your favorite dinner tonight. I love you, darling!”
Utterly confused, Paul stumbled into the kitchen. There it was — hot breakfast, steaming coffee, the morning paper, and his teenage son calmly eating cereal. “Son,” Paul croaked, “what on earth happened last night?” His son looked up with a smirk. “You came home at 3 a.m., completely wasted. You tripped over the coffee table, smashed it, threw up in the hallway, and ran into the door. That’s how you got the black eye.”
Paul rubbed his temple. “Then why is everything spotless? Why do I have a rose and breakfast?” The boy chuckled. “Oh, that’s easy. When Mom dragged you to bed, you yelled, ‘Get your hands off me, lady, I’m married!’” Paul nearly spat out his coffee. Hangover or not — he’d just survived the night by being faithful in his sleep.
