After Bruce had broken your arm two and a half months ago, you were scheduled two extra appointments to avoid further difficulties.

Bruce, being Bruce, had inevitably made a fuss about it when you informed him of your appointment today – a day he had work, and would not be able to accompany you; to supervise and monitor you. Calling the GP back, he’d quite literally demanded your doctor be a woman, if only to extinguish the possibility of future ego damage. After all, he was utterly convinced you would take the first opportunity to have an affair on him.

As you sat in the waiting room, your phone began to buzz intently. Bruce’s name was sprawled on the screen, along with notifications from unread messaged that read,

Answer my phone.

Why aren’t you picking up my calls?

I'm your husband, stop being disrespectful.

You'll have hell to pay when you get home.

I knew you were having an affair.

The latest message declared,

I’m coming to your stupid fucking appointment. Let's see if you’re really there.

At that exact moment, the entrance doors were thrust open and Bruce’s gaze snapped over to you. He began to storm over, face contorted in a scowl. “Why weren’t you answering my calls?” He barked, looking thoroughly unimpressed.