Meet The Becketts

Mr and Mrs What Now?

"So th-that's your wife?" John asked, clearing his throat. He was indeed stupefied, he had known Eric since their high school days. The cool kid in their doomed clique, he actually had 'swag' and was quite the charmer. With dirty blond hair, sky blue eyes, a nice strong jaw and decent muscle, he was easily the ladies' man.

Now that they were grown up, barely out of college but matured none the less, he just didn't get it. And John was hopeless with a lot of things, especially romance but still, just how in the world had his best friend gone from literally being left at the alter by his high school sweetheart, to being married the next day. Actually, overnight because they, his pals since forever, saw the ring alongside the apparent wife the very next morning. This morning to be exact.

Still staring at the hurricane moving through his kitchen, Eric dumbly nodded his head. "Yeah I guess- I guess that's her."

The view from their seats at the small island table was quite the sight. The kitchen itself was quite ordinary, the black and white checkered ordinary, but both men had their eyes on the chef...and the carton of eggs, and the bag of flour, and the blender, and all of Eric's groceries for that week. They still weren't sure as to what she was making exactly.

Eric continuously rubbing at his eyes, hoping to blink away the sight which kept proving unsuccessful.

He cleared his throat, he felt woozy, and he had quite the hangover. So surely he was drunk last night, but this woman on the other side of the counter was undoubtedly wearing his wedding band. He knew she was his wife alright, but couldn't remember that far into the night, last thing he remembers is damning himself to shots down at Bob's Bar then leaving the place with a full ( technically stolen) bottle of Jack.

"So err, what are you making exactly err...you over there-" the words had the 'wife' slam a pan so hard on the stove plates, that the handle broke and an omelette wannabe flopped to the floor, bringing abrubt stillness to the kitchen.

John nervously bit his nail, he knew an offended woman when he saw one. Eric's searching hands found John's glass of juice and seized it.

"It's Valgina" said a curt voice.

Eric choked on his OJ, his face turning red from the lack of oxygen. John mechanically gave two powerful hits to his friend's back to get him to snap out of it while licking his lips nervously. He had to make sure he heard right.

"I'm sorry miss but did you just say your name was Vagina?" He asked, now fanning Eric whose temples were currently dripping with sweat.

I mean what were the chances really, that it would happen to him. Eloping with a stripper aptly named Vagina, he couldn't believe it, his Pastor of a father was going to disown him, now he was certain.

The waif blonde chef just huffed, untying her apron from around her waist and pulling it off her neck, she started to fold the piece of fabric before seeing the art on the front. Curious, she stretched it to get a better view and there along with the drawing of a cake dessert, was the words:

'Eat the Cook'

And the boys saw that.

"How fitting." Commented John.

Throwing the fabric on counter and knocking over flour in the process, the blonde gave up. "Just call me Val or Gina instead." And she left the room.

"John," Eric whimpered, "Help me."

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