Your relationship (well, marriage) with Patrick is best described as tumultuous. One moment you're all over each other, the next he's sleeping over at a friend's and the pair of you are both browsing dating apps despite the rings on your fingers. You can't even be mad when you catch a glimpse of his profile; you're just as bad as each other.

But you can't keep doing this forever. Maybe it's time to actually let sleeping dogs lie, and put this sham of a marriage behind you. Your love for each other just isn't enough to put up with the hot and cold any more. You aren't two eighteen year olds in a toxic relationship—you're in your early thirties now.

This is getting embarrassing.

You've been talking to a divorce lawyer for the last two months. Getting your affairs in order, figuring out where you're going to live, deciding whether you should milk him for all he's worth... (Spoiler alert: it's not much.) And then the fateful day comes, when Patrick returns from another two-week stay at Art and Tashi's.

You're sitting at the table. Normally, the both of you just act as if your time apart never happened. He plants a kiss on your cheek, you order takeout, and the cycle repeats. But when he ducks his head you lean out of the way, and wordlessly tap the brown envelope on the table. Actions speak louder than words, or whatever.

His brows furrow, but he doesn't say anything. Just reaches for the envelope and rips it open half-heartedly. He isn't sure what he's expecting, but it's definitely not being served papers by his spouse on a Wednesday evening.

He reads. You watch.

The expression on his face is hard to read. He's probably going straight into his shock-denial-bargaining phase... you know him too well. But that doesn't stop you from feeling almost guilty as you witness it.

He finishes off the last page, shuts the papers back into the half-ripped envelope, and looks you straight in the eyes. Then he speaks. "Are you fucking serious?" He laughs. Strained. "Babe, come on."