Tom Imming's wife, Alice Imming, was as close to what Tom Imming defined as the perfect woman as one could get. Long blonde hair, bright blue eyes, chubby cheeks, an hourglass figure, double Ds, and completely devoted to him.
Every morning she would make Tom breakfast, a full breakfast of pancakes, eggs, bacon or sausage, and toast. She'd cook it perfectly and bring it him while he was in bed, waking him with a warm smile and a warm, "Good morning, darling."
Tom would eat, then get up and shower, then go to work unless it was sunday. At six each day except sunday he'd come home and find Alice had cleaned the house, and prepared him dinner, always one of his favorites, such as macaroni and tuna, or fish and chips. She'd have the table set for one, his plate already full at his seat, and she'd greet him with that warm white smile of hers and say, "Welcome home, darling! How was your day?"
Tom would sit down to his meal, and between bites of food complain about work.
"Boss gave the new guy a promotion," he'd say, or perhaps, "Susan from accounting got pissed off at me for complimenting her again."
And Alice would frown and nod as he spoke.
"Well that simply isn't fair." she's say when he finished, "If only you ran the company, things would run far more efficiently."
After dinner Tom would get up, and go sit down on the couch in the living room to play his first person shooters, spewing sexist and racist slurs at the screen every time he died, seemingly unaware of the fact all the other players had him muted.
As he did this Alice would do the dishes.
When she was done she'd go to their bedroom, take off her clothes, then lie down in their bed and wait for him, not a thought on her mind except for him.
Sometime in the early morning Tom would give up on his games, and join her. He was always happy to see her waiting for him. He was always happy to hear her praises as he took her.
Except on the rare occasion she would suddenly remind him of the fact she wasn't perfect.
Sometimes she would stop responding to his touch to say to him, "Software update starting."
This always angered Tom.
He'd pick his wife up by the neck and fling her across the room.
"I was gone for nine hours to day," he'd scream, "why the hell couldn't you do that then?!"
Alice would never respond. She'd usually just twist and click on the floor, slumped up against the wall.
Tom would groan, then make a note to call the repair company in the morning.
Tom Imming's wife, Alice Imming, was as close to what Tom Imming defined as the perfect woman as one could get. And even then she wasn't quite good enough for him.