Chapter Text
It was a dreary Tuesday morning while Filbert and Wildberry Cookie sat inside Denny’s. Despite the blueberry waffles with maple syrup stacked in front of them and the freshly squeezed orange juice beside them, the atmosphere was tense.
“It’s no use,” Wildberry sighed, turning away. He had been on a call with the IRS guy for fourteen hours, long past the previous night’s bedtime, and the waffles were getting cold as he sat there too sleep-deprived to feel anything. “We just can’t file jointly with this faulty marriage certificate. We’ll never be able to evade our taxes now!” He covered his face in his hands. Filbert cut a piece of his waffles with his fork and chewed it quietly. He didn’t want to say it then, but he thought the IRS was something the DVD companies made up to warn you against piracy.
“Tom Nook is getting angry that I haven’t been keeping up with my loan payments… There has to be something we can do to avoid crippling debt in this housing market.”
“I’ve been trying to get a raise from Affogato Cookie for years,” Wildberry Cookie leaned back in exasperation, “Ever since he stole Dark Cacao Cookie’s soul jam and became the ruler of all Crispia, the income tax has only gone up, and he hasn’t even adjusted wages for inflation!”
“Dang liberals,” Filbert said. “Can’t get anything done in that stupid Congress.” He remembered hearing that on The Simpsons, and they had predicted a lot of things, notably 9/11 and Queen Elizabeth’s death, so he figured they were a trusted source.
“No, no, no,” Wildberry said. “We like the liberals, remember, they like gay rights and the environment.” Filbert reached for the eight-stripe pride flag in the middle of the table.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “That’s how we got married.”
“Still,” Wildberry Cookie sighed, “We needed those tax deductions. This housing market is horrible! If it’s this bad for millennials, I’m terrified for Gen Z.” Filbert nodded.
“It’s hard to find anywhere that’s in a walkable neighborhood with low crime rates,” Filbert cried. “I just want to live our suburban dream!” Filbert did not know what suburban meant, but it sounded fancy. Like getting a log bench. He reached for his orange juice. “I wonder if we should get divorced.” Filbert thought out loud and took a small drink.
"What!?" Wildberry Cookie startled, and dropped his soggy waffle piece.
“I mean, we can’t get any tax deductions from being married and I recently read an article about the tax benefits of divorce. They have dependence tax exemptions, and we could probably register our joint house plants for that.” Filbert failed to mention that the article was actually a Simpsons episode.
“Maybe…” Wildberry paused as if deep in thought. “Maybe you’re right,” he said finally with a sigh. “Maybe divorce is the only option we have left.”
Nothing more was said that dreary morning before it started to rain. Filbert ate his waffles, content that Wildberry Cookie hadn’t yet discovered his stupidity, while Wildberry Cookie watched through the window as the rain turned the sidewalk a dark shade of grey.