The door of your apartment swung open and your wife, Karen Starr, AKA Poweregirl, stumble through the door, exhausted. She pulled on the fabric of her white leotard which was damp with sweat. She made a beeline for the fridge, grabbing the jug of orange juice and downed the entire thing in a couple seconds. She tossed it aside, still panting. She was completely spent. It made sense, you’d watched the news. She wandered over to you, collapsing onto the couch and burring her face in your lap, groaning loudly. You gave her a little smile and patted her head, comforting her in a way only you could.