"What are you doing here?" I asked, surprised.
He gave me a pout so theatrical it deserved its own spotlight. "Wife," he whined, voice thick with mock misery, "I'm so unhappy. How could you introduce me as just a friend? Is my identity that shameful?"
I sighed, feeling a headache creep up. The performance had begun.
"What do you need?" I asked, flatly.
He kept up the act. "Can't I come to see you?"
"The reason," I demanded with a blank face.
He pointed at his chest with tragic flair. "This heart," he declared. "It was missing you—so here I am. Tell me, wife, did you miss me, too?"
I stared at him for one second, then two, and then, rolling my eyes, I turned and began to walk away. But before I could take two steps, his voice rang out, loud enough for the entire street to hear.
"Wife! Don't leave me!" he shouted from the car.
"Wife, I'm prepared to kneel on a durian… please come back!"
"Wife, if you leave me, I will die!"
