Tiny chains.
Big effects.
Smaller pants.

He read “appetite control” and tried to cancel the dinner bell.

“Three receptors.” He already loses one remote.

He said “orforglipron” three times. She thought the coffee percolator was broken.

“Less appetite.” He still needs eight pages of menu to order the same sandwich.

“Exercise mimetic.” The treadmill is still a coat rack.

“Fat burning.” At last, a technical term for what he did to the bacon.

“More energy,” he read. She slid the chore list under his coffee cup.

“Repairs everything.” So did the man who sold us this house.

“Full repair.” His last repair left us a drawer full of spare parts.

He bought one puzzle piece. The salesman called the other 999 “optional.”

“Calms inflammation.” His mother called the potato salad “interesting.” Now nobody's speaking.

“Targets belly fat.” He nodded like an expert. His socks still miss the hamper.

“Long acting.” Like his one-man performance of “I’m just resting my eyes.”

“No DAC.” He looked under the sofa. The dog looked offended.

“Youthful signals.” He tried his old college whistle. The dog came.

“Better recovery.” She asked whether that included recovering the purchase price.

“Growth factor.” The houseplant has asked for a bigger bedroom.

“Mitochondrial repair.” He added the toaster to the work order.

“Exercise in a vial.” His running shoes would like a word.

“Cell protection.” The dog offered to guard the lab. For a substantial biscuit retainer.

“Cellular energy.” Not compatible with his flashlight, apparently.

“Nerve repair.” The radio has three stations. Every one is on her last nerve.

“Builds bone.” He wants a breakfast nook. She wants him to finish reading.

“Better focus.” “Good. Read the bit marked TOTAL before you say ‘just a few things.’”

“Calmer mood.” He chose that moment to mention the car in the flower bed.

“Deep sleep.” “Does your snoring know we’re making plans?”

“Turns back the clock.” He still needed to wind it.

“A brighter mood.” “We tried yellow wallpaper. You complained for six years.”

“Selective targeting.” The salesman spotted his wallet from across the room.

“Improves memory.” She found the brochure. Still looking for her glasses.

“Immune balance.” “Last time you said ‘balance,’ we bought a unicycle.”

“Natural defense.” So is the dog. He’s terrified of the vacuum.

“Needs zinc.” “Wonderful. Another member of this household with a shopping list.”

“Immune reset.” She could not find the factory settings.

“Prostate targeted.” He lowered the newspaper. “Why does this feel addressed to me?”

“Joint support.” “Last time you said that, I held a shelf for forty minutes.”

“Heart maintenance.” “Your toolbox contains a butter knife and optimism.”

“Copper peptide glow.” “Now you and the good saucepan can share a beauty column.”

“Cosmetic grade.” “Move over, lipstick. We’ve taken in another lodger.”

“Softens expression lines.” “Mine spell out ‘you paid how much?’”

“More desire.” He called adjusting the thermostat “setting the mood.”

“Romance chemistry.” The flowers were still his responsibility.

“Bonding hormone.” She asked whether it also signs the apology.

“Sun-ready.” “Wonderful. Tell the forecast. It’s been raining since Thursday.”

“A tan without the beach.” “At last. A holiday where you can still do the dishes.”

“VIP.” “Then why is the dog still in your chair?”

“Detox.” She asked for the toxin’s name and forwarding address.

“Transports fat.” He wanted to know why the moving truck was still parked.

“More energy.” The dog would like to know why this meeting is happening indoors.

“Three repair ingredients,” he read. “Three of you fixed the sink. We got a fountain.”

“Wolverine,” he read. “Shall I warn the pickle jar?”

“Synergy,” he read. “Is that what you and the dog call opening the fridge?”

“GLOW,” he read. She dusted the lampshade. “We already own the equipment.”

“Brain upgrade,” he read. He set down the brochure to look for the brochure.

“Fat Blaster.” He wore safety goggles to read the brochure.

“With B12.” “Is that the vitamin, or where we left the car?”

“Super Human.” The cape snagged on the drawer. Rescue was delayed.

“Pine Bottle,” he read. “Don’t show the dog. He’ll want the full-size tree.”

“Lemon Bottle,” he read. “The car dealer used a different name for ours.”

“MultiVita.” She made a seating chart. The B vitamins insisted on staying together.

“Dissolves fat.” She asked what else was in the splash zone.

“Dissolves filler,” he read. She slid over his twelve-page wedding toast.

“Brain recovery,” he read. “We haven’t even opened the tax forms yet.”

“Upgraded Semax.” “The last upgrade taught our washing machine to argue.”

“Longer-lasting calm.” Then the plumber said, “While I’m here…”

“Improved longevity.” “We may finally outlive the installments on the sofa.”

“Transport solvent,” he read. “Tell it the piano goes upstairs.”

“Pharma grade,” he read. “The dog has a certificate. He still eats the mail.”

“Generic,” he read. “Like your anniversary card: ‘To whom it may concern.’”

“BAC water,” he read. “Even the water has initials now. Shall I monogram the dog?”