From a prompt by my excessively introverted spouse. (Just so you all can see how seriously I take my made-up-on-the-spot rules.)
There were three shoes by the front door. Weston’s sneakers, and one darker blue one that looked like a slip-on. Dressy. Too thin for his foot.
At the IHOP, they gave him a stack of five pancakes. He’d ordered three. He couldn’t make the waitress understand what he was asking. He left half on the plate.
That night, his bed was up to a queen-size from a twin. After a resigned look to see if the sheets had similarly expanded, he climbed in and tried not to worry about it.
He woke up the next morning beside her, and smiled.
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