Harold had been planning this all day.
He trimmed his ear hair. He used aftershave from 2003. He even changed into his nicest pair of flannel pajamas, the ones without the mysterious spaghetti stain.
Tonight was going to be the night.
He slid into bed like a stealthy walrus, flashed a grin at Edna, and whispered,
“Guess who’s feelin’ romantic?”
Edna didn’t look up from her laptop. “Harold, check your email.”
He blinked. “Why would I check my email? I’m right here, radiating pheromones.”
She sighed. “I sent it this morning. Subject line: ‘Not Tonight.’”
Harold grabbed his laptop off the nightstand. Sure enough—there it was.
Timestamped 7:42 AM.
Bold letters.
All caps.
BCC’d to the cat.
“Edna!” he gasped. “You put me in a reply-all with Whiskers?!”
She finally glanced at him. “Well, someone needed to see it, and he’s the only one who doesn’t argue.”
Harold grumbled. “This is emotional spam.”
She leaned back on her pillows. “At least I didn’t send a GIF.”
He muttered, “You used to send me love notes.”
“I still do,” Edna said. “They just go to your junk folder now.”