Chainsaw Chicken stood in the field longer than necessary, holding a sunflower that had already given up most of its opinions. Petals on the ground don’t lie. They just tell you what you already suspect.
He’s been married to Mrs. Chicken a long time. Long enough to know that love isn’t fireworks or slogans or anniversary posts with filters. It’s endurance. It’s showing up. It’s remembering which drawer the batteries are in. It’s not leaving when the other person changes a little and then changes back.
Still, even a man secure in his marriage can notice patterns.
Lately, Mrs. Chicken has been having girls’ night a couple times a week. Not once in a while. Not “oh, it just worked out that way.” A couple times. Regularly. Organized. With shoes chosen carefully.
Chainsaw doesn’t ask many questions. He’s traditional that way. Trust first. Noise later. He believes love should be given room to breathe, not interrogated under a bright light like a bad alibi.
But standing there with the sunflower, he wondered about enduring love. Not dramatic love. Not desperate love. The kind that survives calendar invites and inside jokes you’re not part of.
He’s tried to think of ways to spice things up. That phrase alone made him tired.
Cosplay felt like pretending to be people neither of them were. Spicy talk sounded better in theory than it did out loud. Lingerie turned into a discussion about comfort and lighting. None of it failed exactly—it just didn’t ignite anything new.
That’s when the thought crept in, quieter than the others:
What if the answer isn’t novelty at all?
What if romance isn’t escalation, but return?
Flowers without a reason. Notes that don’t lead anywhere. Holding hands with no agenda. Listening without waiting for a pause. Being chosen again not because you tried harder, but because you stayed true.
“She loves me,” he said quietly, pulling a petal.
“She loves me not,” he said, pulling another.
In the end, the flower ran out before the doubt did. That happens sometimes.
Chainsaw Chicken went home anyway. Mrs. Chicken would be back later. She always is. Love, he’s learned, isn’t proven by counting petals — it’s proven by who comes home, and why.
Tomorrow, he decided, he’d try romance the old way. No costumes. No clever lines. Just presence, patience, and the quiet confidence of someone still in it for the long haul.
Love, like marriage, is a long game.