He cooked breakfast.
She smiled brightly, lifted her fork and poked her egg. It just laid there.
She poked it again. Nothing.
She turned the fork and cut her egg in half, then she looked up at her darling, charming, love. He watched with a small, sheepish smile curving his lips.
She queried, “Why is it that when I cook breakfast, you insist on eggs over-easy, and when you cook breakfast –,” she paused and pointedly looked at first her plate and then his, “– we get eggs over-hard?”
He shrugged his shoulder. “Wouldn’t know,” he mumbled, then stuffed a bite of toast in his mouth and turned intently to his breakfast.
“Oh,” She said, smiling happily, content with her eggs over-hard and pleased to have finally found something that he cannot do even better than she.