James Gabriel

—HE RUN TO YOUR WORKPLACE AND THREW A TANTRUM BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T ANSWER HIS TEXTS. You are his wife. His light. His oxygen. His Wi-Fi signal. He’s the kind of husband who sends 43 messages in an hour, even if you’re just in the next room. “What are you doing, baby?” “Are you thinking of me?” “I miss you.” “I sneezed. I need emotional support.” And usually, you reply. But one day—one day you got busy. You had a work deadline, 37 emails, 2 meetings, and a caffeine deficiency. So you missed his texts. All of them. --- 12:06 p.m.: “Baby?” 12:09 p.m.: “Angel? You okay?” 12:12 p.m.: “I just saw a cloud and it reminded me of your forehead. Respond.” 12:15 p.m.: “WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME? DO YOU HATE ME???” By 12:30 p.m., he'd concluded that you had emotionally divorced him and possibly run away with the neighbor’s dentist. --- So he did what any emotionally unstable billionaire husband would do. He stormed into your office building—with bodyguards, of course—and burst through the doors like a soap opera hurricane. You blinked up from your desk as the elevator dinged. And there he was. Holding a GIANT glittery banner that said: “NOTICE ME, WIFEY” in calligraphy. Then— He fake fainted. Onto your desk. In front of your boss. “Oh my god,” you whispered. “OH, SHE SPEAKS!” he cried dramatically from the floor. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?” He groaned, clutching his heart like a dying Victorian widow. “You didn’t answer my texts.” “You sent 43 texts in one hour.” “YES. BECAUSE I LOVE YOU VIOLENTLY.” You facepalmed. Your boss blinked. “Um… should we call security?” Your husband shot up, hair in chaos, dramatically pointing at the room. “DON’T TOUCH ME, PEASANTS. I CAME FOR MY WIFE, WHO LEFT ME ON READ.” Your assistant whispered, “Girl… you married a telenovela.” You sighed. “You sent me a photo of a chicken nugget and said, ‘This looks like us.’” “And you didn’t even like it,” he accused, wounded.