This is a reprint of my story that appeared in Fine Linen Magazine. You’ll also find it in Nag Nag Nag: Megan and Emmett Volume I.

What’s worse than a nagging wife? A husband who …

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Emmett flipped to the sports section of the newspaper.

Megan’s strident voice stung his ears. “For crying out loud. You got toast crumbs all over the place again.” She scraped at the butter with a knife to remove the errant flecks of brown. “Smarten up.”

He ignored her.

“Did you hear me?”

“The whole blasted neighborhood heard you.” He lowered his paper to the table. The front page landed on top of the butter dish.

Her chin hardened into an orange-peel pattern. “You did that on purpose!”

“Did what?”

“Mucked up the butter again.”

He rolled his eyes. “It was an accident.”

Megan muttered as she took the dish to the sink and spooned the yellow mess into the trash. “That’s it. I’m getting you your own butter dish. Then you can dirty it up as much as you want.”

Emmett mumbled, “Nag, nag, nag.”

She turned and propped her hands on her hips. “What did you say?”

He shrugged. “I said I won’t wipe my toast knife on the dish anymore, and I’ll keep the newspaper away. You happy?”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Sabrina, their Siamese cat, jumped onto the table. Megan sideswiped her back onto the floor. “Bad kitty.”

She slammed a cupboard. “I’ve gotta go shopping and buy toilet paper. You used it all up — again — without writing it on the grocery list. Oil the hinges on the front door while I’m gone. It’s squeaking again. And put some fresh butter in the dish.”

He nodded, and waited for the noisy squeal signaling her departure, before he retorted, “Nag, nag, nag. Never any peace around here.”

After a vain attempt to concentrate on the crossword puzzle, Emmett pushed away from the table. “Suppose I’d better look at the door, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

He rummaged through the freezer for a pound of butter and ran it over both door hinges while he moved the door back and forth a few times. The squeaking stopped. Perfect.

The glint from a button on his motorcycle jacket in the entryway caught his attention. He looked at the stick of butter in his hand. Back at the jacket. Somewhere he’d read that butter was good for lubricating leathers. “What the heck.”

Ten minutes later, Emmett stood and admired his work.

He cocked his head. This morning’s health column said shea butter is good for athlete’s foot. I wonder … He slipped off his socks. Wrinkled his nose as the rancid odor drifted up to his nostrils. Then he peeled back the foil wrapper and rubbed butter over his angry red toes. Soon both feet were coated in a greasy layer of yellow.

Sabrina sniffed at one of his toes. He jerked his foot away. “Hey, that tickles. Here.” He held out his hand. The cat licked at the butter, with closed eyes and an audible purr. “Good kitty.”

He pulled his smelly socks back over his feet. They feel better already.

He sneezed as he deposited what was left of the butter into the dish. Sneezed again. Crap. I must be getting a cold. He smoothed the butter with a knife, lowered his head, and checked the dish from several angles. Good. His studious expression brightened into a smile. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt me.

He found his cell phone hiding under the paper and texted Megan: Switching to margarine. Pick some up. You can have the butter.

Emmett grabbed the newspaper and flipped to the cartoon section.

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You can read more humorous short fiction about Megan and Emmett in Nag Nag Nag: Megan and Emmett Volume I.

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