Ted’s sister-in-law, Marla, was a vision in yoga pants, her curves defying gravity like a physics experiment gone deliciously wrong. Every Sunday brunch at his brother Dave’s house, Ted found himself stealing glances, his heart doing a clumsy tap dance. Marla’s laugh—husky, like she’d smoked a cigar in a past life—made his knees wobble. He wasn’t proud of it, but lust had pitched a tent in his brain and wasn’t paying rent.
This particular Sunday, Ted arrived early, armed with a jar of artisanal pickles he’d bought to impress her. Marla was a pickle fiend, always rhapsodizing about their briny perfection. “Ted, you brought pickles?” she cooed, her green eyes sparkling as she unscrewed the lid. A whiff of dill hit the air, and Ted’s imagination ran wild—her lips, those pickles, a forbidden tangy tryst.
Dave was in the kitchen, oblivious, wrestling a waffle iron. “Ted, you’re on coffee duty!” he barked. Ted shuffled over, but his eyes stayed glued to Marla, who was now fishing a pickle from the jar with her fingers, her lips wrapping around it with a crunch that sent Ted’s pulse into overdrive. Good lord, woman, it’s just a pickle, he thought, but his trousers disagreed.
“Ted, you okay?” Marla asked, catching him staring. She smirked, licking a bead of pickle juice from her thumb. Ted choked on his own spit, coughing like a man possessed. “F-fine!” he sputtered, spilling coffee grounds across the counter. Dave glanced over, oblivious. “Bro, you’re a disaster. Marla, stop distracting him with your pickle obsession.”
“Oh, I’m distracting?” Marla teased, winking at Ted. His face went tomato-red, and he fumbled the coffee pot, sending it clattering into the sink. “Smooth, Ted,” she laughed, sauntering off to set the table, her hips swaying like a metronome of sin.
Ted gripped the counter, whispering to himself, “Get it together, you horny idiot.” He loved Dave, adored his brother’s dumb dad jokes and loyalty. But Marla? She was a walking fever dream, and Ted was sweating. As brunch began, he sat across from her, trying to focus on his waffles. Then Marla slid a pickle onto his plate. “Try this one, Ted. It’s extra juicy,” she said, her voice dripping with mischief.
He bit into it, the crunch echoing in his skull, and for one wild moment, he imagined running off with her to a pickle-fueled utopia. Then Dave slapped his back. “You’re weirdly into that pickle, man. Marla’s got you brainwashed!”
Ted laughed, a little too loud, and shoveled waffle into his mouth to avoid speaking. Marla’s foot brushed his under the table—accidental, surely?—and his fork hit the floor. As he dove to retrieve it, he caught a glimpse of her ankle, tanned and perfect, and nearly headbutted the table coming back up.
Brunch ended with Ted volunteering to wash dishes, desperate for a cold-water distraction. Marla leaned against the counter, drying a plate, her perfume—something citrusy and cruel—making his head spin. “You’re cute when you’re flustered, Ted,” she said, tossing him a dish towel and sauntering out.
Ted stood there, soaked in dishwater and regret, wondering if he’d survive another Sunday. He’d keep coming back, though. For the waffles. For Dave. And, God help him, for the pickles.