You found a pint of Heath Bar Crunch in the freezer.
“Guess I’m being cheated on,” you tell your husband.
He says it’s not so. You say it must be so. Neither of you have ever eaten Heath Bar Crunch in 11 years of marriage.
“Goddammit, if you paid any attention to me you’d know my taste in ice cream has changed,” he shouts. “I love Heath Bar Crunch. Not that you’d care.”
You apologize. He accepts. You go to sleep. He melts the Heath Bar Crunch in the microwave, just for 90 seconds, just to loosen the cream enough to welcome his penis, sending the shards of weird, outdated Heath candy bar scraping his shaft with its slivered, toffee filling. He is cheating on you. You’ve been replaced. But not by a woman. Not by the 24-year-old girl you imagined. No. He’s found love in the grip of something far more powerful, far more difficult for you to comprehend.
Your husband fucks weird ice cream now.
Happy Heath Bar Crunch Day!