The Pickle Dilemma

"The whole time you never thought of the pickles, even though I asked you questions about them?" Ginny was confused. "How could you be that thick?"

"I didn't think you wanted the bloody pickles," he said grouchily. "What's all this about, anyway?"

"The fact that you never think about what anybody wants but yourself, that's all," she snapped at him, her face coloring.

"Ginny -" he began cautiously. "Is this your hormones acting up again?"

"No! How could you even try to blame this on that, you insufferable, inconsiderate prat! You think the fact that I'm upset is just an illusion, do you?" She continued to shriek in rage, her flaming red hair curling out of its already messy bun and framing her face like a kind of fiery halo. It added somewhat to the demon from hell effect, her husband thought as she continued to yell at him. Little firebrand.

"Alright, alright," he said, relenting, and she quieted, looking slightly embarassed with herself. "I'll go back out and get some pickles." He jammed his hat back over his jet black hair and made his way towards the front door.

Her voice suddenly softened its tone. "The fat kosher dill ones, please," she said quietly.

He glanced back at her. She suddenly looked very small and alone standing there in the hallway, one hand on her swollen stomach, her brown eyes wide. Taken aback by her sudden change of demeanor, he stepped back over to her and swept her into a tight hug.

"The big kosher dill ones," he confirmed into her bright hair, breathing in the light flowery scent of her characteristic perfume. He pulled back, kissed her firmly on the forehead and headed again for the front door. "I'll be back in a little bit." He walked through the icy rain to the gate, head bent against the wind and wet, tucking his hands in his pockets to protect from the cold. When he reached the gate, he swung it open, stepped into the slick, icy road, and Disapparated with a loud "pop."

About a half hour later, he reappared by the gate carrying a brown paper bag, with a large glass jar of pickles inside. He walked back to the house as quickly as he could, stamping his feet to remove the slush and wet. No sooner had he thrown open the front door and announced his return when Ginny entered the hallway from the kitchen. He spread his arms, showing her the brown paper bag and smiling, expecting a hug of thanks, but none came. He lowered his arms awkwardly as she stared at him, a curious expression on her face. She looked rather peaky all of a sudden.

"What is it, Ginny?" he asked nervously, seeing how she had gone deathly pale.

She was trembling all over. "How - how could you?" she managed to in a near whisper, every syllable dripping with what sounded horribly like rage. She held up a brightly colored ice cream carton with scant traces of mint chocolate chip ice cream stuck to the insides. "How could you!" her voice raised to a shriek. She lobbed the carton at him; it bounced off his head and hit the floor. He winced and began backing up slightly as she advanced on him, her hands curled into fists at her sides.

"Er - Ginny, love -" There was no defending himself this time.

All in all, Blaise decided, as Ginny chased him through the house brandishing various and sundry objects at him like weapons, it had been a very trying evening.

FIN