Piero Barone Imagines

"How can my wife be more badass than me?"

"Amore? I'm home!"

"Welcome! Now fucking help me!"

Piero definitely did not expect such an answer. He quickly took off his jacket, left his keys on the tea table and jogged to the kitchen, where the smell of roasted vegetables informed him you would be.

When he entered the room he was faced with a state of chaos. You were ironing one of his shirts, while next to you, on a kitchen chair, lay a mountain of tangled, newly washed clothes. In front of you was your laptop and a huge stack of papers, a bunch of highlighters, pens and a pencil. Your eyes were running through the text, some times taking a glance at the oven to check the food and others at the shirt, making sure you weren't destroying the garment. Used plates and bowls were pilling up in the sink.

"Shit!"

Your finger touched the heated metal for only a second, yet it was more than enough to cause the flesh to become red and start swelling. Without even greeting you properly, Piero practically dragged you to the sink and put your hand under the fresh, cold water to ease the pain and take away the swelling.

"Better?"

Thankful for your husband's quick responses, you bit your lip and nodded. He grabbed a towel and wrapped your finger tightly, leading you to sit at the kitchen table.

"What is going on here? Why didn't you call me to help you?"

"I tried! But the subscriber i had called was out of reach", you protested, mimicking the mechanical voice.

With a hint of doubt in his expression, he reached for his phone inside his pocket, only to find it dead of battery and feel a wave of guilt hit him hard.

"I'm sorry... Tell me what can i do to help now?"

His apologetic look softened your anger and allowed you to take a breath and relax a bit.

"It was your turn to make dinner."

"It was? Shit, i totally forgot! I'm the best candidate for the worst-husband-of-the-year award."

His added guilt was only eased a bit by your chuckle.

"I'll finish it off though. Anything else I can do?"

"You need to pick up (daughter's/name) from her ballet class in half an hour and then drive straight to the football pitch and pick up (son's/name) as well."

"Consider it done! What else?"

"Make sure they take a shower and finish their homework."

His eyes were fixed on the floor as his mind took notes.

"Oh and... I'd kill for a coffee... Literally."

"Somehow i don't have any trouble believing that", he noted chuckling.

"I have a question", he began while preparing your coffee. "How do you manage all this on your own every day?"

"Practice my dear. Although it's not every day that i need to prepare urgent presentations or that i'm forced into picking up a fight, so that's a relief."

"Wait, when did you pick up a fight?"

"When i dropped (son's/name) at the pitch, another mother walked up to me and started lecturing me about how (son's/name) shouldn't have shot the ball straight to the opponent's net during the last game, but instead pass it to her son so he could score and get all the fame and attention. Her exact words were «(son's/name) is already famous enough with his father being a singer. He should let other people get on the spotlight as well.» Don't say anything", you stopped him by raising your palm. "I've already reminded her, not in the most polite way i have to admit, that all the men in our family have become famous because they've worked hard for it and have the necessary skills."

"How is my wife more badass than me", he asked with a wide smile.

"As i said, it's all a matter of practice. Besides, no one offends my children. Never."