After thirty-seven years of marriage, Edna had grown tired of Harold’s predictable routine. Dinner at five, complaints by six, television by seven, and loud snoring before the clock even reached eight. One humid summer evening, she stood ironing clothes in their bedroom while an ancient fan rattled in the corner like it was fighting for survival. Harold sat in his recliner half-asleep, scratching his stomach and watching the evening news like always. Edna suddenly stopped ironing, lit a cigarette, and let out the kind of dramatic sigh usually heard in old black-and-white movies.

Then she turned toward Harold with a sly little smile. “Harold,” she said, “how about we try a different position tonight?” The words hit him like lightning. His eyes widened instantly, and he nearly dropped the remote control onto the carpet. For a brief moment, Harold felt twenty-five again. Then panic arrived right behind it. His mind raced through every painful memory his back still carried from the infamous gardening disaster of 2008.

He cleared his throat nervously and shifted in his chair. “Uh… sure, Edna,” he mumbled carefully. “What exactly did you have in mind?” Edna leaned back against the ironing board, took a long drag from her cigarette, and stared at him like a queen about to announce new royal laws. Harold braced himself for yoga, stretching, or some terrifying couples exercise involving balance and regret.

Instead, Edna smirked and said, “How about you stand over here by the ironing board while I sit on the sofa and fart proudly into the cushions like royalty for once?” Harold blinked twice in silence before nodding slowly. “Well,” he replied, “as long as nobody expects me to fold the fitted sheets afterward. That’s where I draw the line.”