I spent about an hour and a half waiting in the GP’s office last week. There was nothing wrong with me; I’d taken a day off work and just needed a medical certificate. For some reason, probably boredom, I picked up one of the outdated magazines from the coffee table and began to flick through. An article on relationships brought a halt to my rapid scan. It was as poorly written and pathetic as the other pieces; however, I was in a five month relationship and a little curious about where I stood. According to the column there were three main criteria that constituted a serious relationship: one, talking about a joint future, two, the need for space from you partner, and three, a feeling of emptiness when they’re not around. “Jennifer Brown,” called the doctor. The announcement startled me. I looked up.
An attractive brunette rose from my side and returned a magazine to the pile; she lent over me slightly in the process. “You know you’re in a serious relationship when you can comfortably take a shit at your partner’s place,” she said.
An attractive brunette rose from my side and returned a magazine to the pile; she lent over me slightly in the process. “You know you’re in a serious relationship when you can comfortably take a shit at your partner’s place,” she said.