Before signaling to Annie that breakfast was ready, Vince wiped his hands on his pants, brushed a few crumbs and stray cheese off the kitchen counter onto the floor, and then noticed the napkin holder was empty.  Over the years, Annie had taught him that a properly set table always had a napkin on the left.  He ran his hands through his hair, opened a few cabinet doors, but found no napkins. 
        So, he relied upon his bachelor instincts: adapt and make do.  Wasn’t toilet paper simply a napkin-like tissue in a roll?  He took a new roll from the bathroom cabinet and carefully ripped off two lengths and folded each nicely next to his and Annie’s plates, then placed the roll in the middle of the table, in case they needed more.  Annie walked into the kitchen just as he was about to make a quiet announcement that breakfast was ready.
        “Oh, it smells great in here,” said Annie standing near the refrigerator.  “Like pizza, actually.  Are we having your famous Home Run Eggs?”
        “Yes, ma’am.  With sausage pulled off last night’s Home Run Inn pizza when you weren’t looking.  And I dare say that with the mixture of blueberries, grapes, and peanuts on the side, nowhere else will you find a breakfast like this.”  Vince held out his hands in presentation.
        “You’re special.”  Annie looked at the table and gasped.  “What is THAT doing on the table?”
        “What?”
        “That roll of toilet paper!”
        “We’re out of napkins.  It’s still paper, just a little softer.”
        “Well, please get rid of it.  I can’t eat breakfast with a roll of toilet paper on the table.”  Vince grabbed the roll and put it on the counter near the stove.
        “No, get it out of this room and put it where it belongs…in the bathroom.”
        When Vince returned, Annie sat stiffly at the table, while he brought over two cups of coffee.  She waited for him to sit before grabbing her fork.  And as she did so, she noticed the folded tissues acting as napkins.  “Oh no,” she said and quickly handed them to Vince.  “Here, put these in your pocket.  We have our fancy paper napkins far in the back of the top right drawer near the stove.”  She walked over and pulled out two blue napkins, each illustrated with an artistic light green meadow and an orange sunset, the sun embossed in gold.
         Annie sat down, began to eat, and said, “It doesn’t take much for you to revert back to ‘your ways’, does it?”
        “My ways?  What ways?”
        “Oh my God!  Do I have to remind you about your apartment when we first met?  The red lightbulb in the bathroom as opposed to just cleaning the bathroom, cardboard boxes on their sides on metal shelves as bookcases.  And best of all, the unfit bed sheet tied onto the mattress with strings underneath the mattress.  And I asked, ‘But how do you wash it?’  And you just gave me a blank look.  Do I need to go on?  Those are your ways and part of the reason I love you.  But Vince, those are bachelor ways.  I’ve tried so hard.  We’ve been married over forty years and they’re still just below the surface!”
        Vince inwardly smiled and placed his napkin on his knee, as a refined gentleman would do; he looked at Annie and said, “I’m an engineer.  I solve problems.  How are your eggs?”
        “Absolutely perfect, sweetheart.  I’m sorry about picking on you.  I don’t know what it is you do to the eggs.  But they are so good…so good.”  She faced her husband and smiled.
        “It’s the secret ingredient, Annie.”
        “Which is…?”
        “Love.”  And they both laughed, thinking of the domineering, manipulative mother-in-law, Marie Barone, whose line he borrowed, from their favorite television program, Everybody Loves Raymond.
        Annie said, “You know, when all is said and done, you really are very good in the kitchen.  I’ve taught you well.”  But after looking closely at the floor near the counter, she stood up, grabbed a broom, and gave Vince a disapproving stare, which he missed, engrossed as he was at enjoying the Home Run Eggs. 

Chicago’s Home Run Inn pizza