Apple of My Eye

“You’re the apple of my eye, darling,” Mark said on the cab ride home from the fancy restaurant, where he and his wife had had their fill of delicious food and quite a bit of wine.

“Oh yeah?  Well, you’re the banana of my life,” Evelyn said, slurring her words in spirited, and wine-induced, debate.

After an uncomfortable silence, Mark said, “What does that even mean?”

“What do you even mean?” Evelyn retorted, surprisingly fast for someone who appeared to be on the verge of falling asleep.

Mark, who hadn't had as much to drink, was starting to suspect that his beautiful wife had meant it as an insult. 

“Do you mean I’m the one who helps you get through the day when you skip breakfast?” Mark asked, in an unsuccessful attempt to lighten the mood.

“No, I mean that you weren't ripe when I chose you, and now you’re all mushy and old.”  Evelyn giggled and poked at Mark’s belly as she said this.  It was her own twisted way of lightening the mood, which Mark knew after 10 years of marriage.

They rode in silence for a minute before Mark said, “Really, Evelyn, you are the apple of my eye.”

“Really, babe, I hate apples and I don’t like being compared to one,” Evelyn said, closing her eyes and leaning her head against Mark’s chest.

“It’s just an expression, doll.  It doesn't mean you’re like an apple in any way, it just means that I love you,” Mark explained.

“Then why don’t you call me something else?” Evelyn said.  After a pause, she added, “I like mangoes.”

“Fine,” Mark said.  “You’re the mango of my soul.”

Evelyn looked up at him and smiled, then snuggled back against his chest and thought about how lucky she was to have married a man such as Mark.