My husband stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his shirt like he was heading out on a date—not to work.
Far too much for someone who claimed he had “meetings.”
I stood in the kitchen, watching the coffee finish brewing.
In my hand… a small bottle of laxative.
This wasn’t impulsive.
It came after months of silence, calls that ended the second I walked into the room, and “urgent meetings” that somehow always happened on Friday nights.
And most of all… after the message I saw the night before:
“I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow. Don’t forget the perfume I like.”
Signed—Carolina.
The new secretary.
Elegant name.
Too elegant.
I took a slow breath.
“And my coffee?” he called from the doorway, adjusting his belt with an excitement I hadn’t seen directed at me in weeks.
I handed it to him.
“A little surprise,” I said, smiling calmly.
I watched him drink.
One sip.
Two.
Three.
He finished it without hesitation.
That stung more than I expected… he hadn’t rushed anything I gave him in a long time.
“So where are you going all dressed up and smelling like that?” I asked, leaning casually against the frame.
“Meeting,” he said, grabbing his keys. “Important one. Strategy… projections… synergy.”
He tossed the words around like they actually meant something.
“Synergy with lace?” I muttered.
But he was already gone.
The door shut.
Silence.
I glanced at the clock.
One minute.
Two.
Five.
I sat at the table, waiting.
Ten minutes later—
perfect timing.
“DAMN IT!” he shouted from outside.
I smiled.
I stepped onto the porch, wearing my most innocent expression.
There he was—bent over beside the car, clutching his stomach like it was seconds away from betraying him.
He staggered toward the house.
“What did you give me?!” he shouted. “I’m not going to make it to the bathroom!”
I pressed a hand to my chest, feigning concern.
“Love… are you nervous?”
He froze, pale.
“Nervous?!”
“They say when you’re anxious about a date… your body reacts.”
“I WON’T MAKE IT!”
He rushed toward the stairs.
“Oh—and don’t even think about using the upstairs bathroom,” I added sweetly.
He stopped mid-step.
“Why not?”
“I’m cleaning it.”
What happened next was unforgettable.
My “corporate genius” husband—full of big words like “synergy”—scrambling upstairs with zero dignity left, his “important meeting” clearly canceled.
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