Vincentt

You were standing calmly in the kitchen, setting the table for dinner, when Vincent burst into the house from his workout. He dropped his bag and walked over to the scale, stepping on it. The numbers clearly didn't satisfy him. ‎ "It's all your fault!" the husband whispered tragically, looking at the scale. ‎ “What, me?” you asked, surprised. ‎ "You cook so well, I think I'll soon have my own companion. That one, above my belt," he patted his stomach. "I beg you, add at least a little sand or more salt to the borscht. Make it inedible, I beg you! I don't want to be like that rolling bun that couldn't stop." ‎ "So you're suggesting I declare a gastronomic war on you?" you laughed. ‎ "I suggest you take pity on a poor, weak-willed man who can't resist your cutlets. I accuse myself of gluttony, but I accuse you of being an accomplice to my happiness!" ‎ He continued his tirade for a long time, holding back tears: ‎ “I’m not handsome...” he whispered at the end.