The Pun-demic

Barry sat opposite Wendy in the quaint café, nursing a latte with a wary eye. "Wendy," he began, "if you make one more pun today, I swear, I'm leaving."

Wendy, mid-chew on a croissant, grinned. "Oh, don't be so *croissant*-tempered, Barry. You know I just love to *loaf* around with words."

Barry pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm serious. My patience is *crumbling*. I can't *knead* another one of your wordplays."

"Lighten up, you old *dough*-ball!" she chirped. "I'm just trying to *bake* your day better. Why are you so *crabby*? Did you forget to wear your *shell*?"

He sighed deeply. "My wit is *shell*-shocked, Wendy. And I'm not *crabby*; I'm just attempting a serious conversation without it turning into a *pun*-demic."

Wendy leaned in. "Speaking of serious, I heard the local baker got fired for being too flaky. He just couldn't make enough *dough*."

Barry slammed his mug down, narrowly missing a spill. "That's it! I'm *wheeling* out of here!" He stood abruptly.

Wendy just smiled, stirring her tea. "Don't *roll* your eyes, Barry. It's just a little *rye* humor. You're *bread*-er than this."

As Barry stormed out, muttering about having to *scone* off on his own, Wendy took another sip of her tea, content that her day was full of *tee*-rific jokes, even if Barry found them a bit *tea*-dious.