“Chicken,” he argues, accepting a plateful of my scrambled eggs.

“Egg,” I counter, despairing.

“Chicken,” he pluffs, eggs carelessly falling from his smug mouth.

Unzipping my skin suit, feathered breast bursting, I peck him solidly in the chest. Mouth agape, he flees the kitchen.

I hate it when he’s right.

Judy Crawford met the love of her life in a college writing class. They don’t always agree either.