Procrastination was a strongpoint amongst other behavioural habits that you keenly possess. There were several layers to this one singular habit, such as the very top layer being the ability to postpone menial housework duties, or change the batteries in, well, every battery powered item within your apartment. Second layer was for getting back to a text, which turns to three days and a mental response rather than a physical one that had been typed out. On a deeper level, your postponing events such as a Pap smear; may be up there with the top three most ludicrous things to delay. 

Which, is why when your husband comes back from the communal mailbox area, waving a brown envelope that had the words in rather imposing red block letters that read: FINAL NOTICE. It was safe to say you felt yourself shrink in size on the sofa.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t want to take it seriously. These things were incredibly important in catching symptoms of the worst case scenario at a much quicker rate than the whole ‘wait and see’ take. It was just…daunting. 

Exposing. Potentially traumatising? Anything that struck the fear into you, could be used as the explanation as to why you hadn’t ever booked that all too important appointment. 

(Plus, you had gone searching for horror stories, which only furthered your delays.) 

Speaking of explanations, when Clark approaches you with the letter in question; you wrack your brain for an excuse that would appease to inquiry that was burning on the tip of his tongue. 

“This looks important. Final notice, honey.” Clark frowns down at the letter in his hand, “Did you ignore another letter from the landlord?” 

“No, I did not.” (Yes, you had. But for good reason. The rental inflation was ridiculous and you rejected the landlord’s issue of the increase in monthly payments by just shredding the envelopes.) 

Clark nods, “So, what is this?” 

“It’s…junk mail?” 

“Honey.” Clark levels with you, “I am the one who sorts out junk mail. This is not junk mail.” 

“Then it’s harassment.” you retort plainly, finding great interest in your cuticles to avoid Clark’s searing glare—sometimes you wondered what it would be like to not be married to the world’s most enveloping abiding citizen. 

Clark flips the envelope in his hand. “It’s from your OB-GYN. I can see the address.” he pauses to think, blue eyes going wide, “Is there something we need to talk about?”

“No! No—God—How do you even know that’s their address?” you shake your head, “Actually, don’t answer that. It’s just…It’s just about a little Pap smear…that I haven’t gotten done.” your voice trails off at the end and you’re left speaking to a speck of dust on the floor, rather than at your husband. 

You really needed to vacuum. 

Clark falls silent. And not the good silent that is comfortable, where you can sink into the sofa cushions and listen to the quiet lull in content. If you were to spare him a look over your shoulder, you’d be able to see the scowl on his face, matching the crease between his furrowed brows; his nostrils flaring at your confession. 

So, you don’t look. You save yourself the non-verbal chastising by looking everywhere else in the hopes that the topic of conversation will be sucked out of the open window and into the windy air of Metropolis. 

It’s when Clark moves around the apartment like a man on a crucial mission that warrants his heavy footsteps against the wooden floorboards; that you eventually turn your head to watch him enter the kitchen in a storm, and exit with his phone pressed to his ear. 

You frown, “What are you doing?”

“I’m really disappointed in you, honey.” Clark pulls the phone away from his ear to press an option he had been prompted to select on the other end, “Are you aware of how serious Pap smears are? How cervical cancer is one of the most undetected cancers until it’s progressed to a stage that is untreatable? How long have you been ignoring these letters?” 

“Are you—Are you phoning my OB-GYN?” you stand, clambering over the back of the sofa when Clark affirms his intentions with a curt nod. “Clark!” you attempt to snatch the phone from his grasp, “You can’t just do that—I was getting round to it!” 

Clark deflects your feeble attempt at getting his phone, “I can, and I will. We are making this appointment right now, honey.” he advises in a tone of sternness. 

“My records are private. They won’t let you book an appointment for me.” 

“You gave permission last time we visited.” Clark holds a finger up when you swear under your breath, “Hello, yes, I’m calling on behalf of my wife—” he speaks your name and then tells the receptionist to take her time in finding your records, “Yes, that’s her. I’m her husband, Clark Kent.” 

“Unbelievable.”

Clark puts his hand across the microphone, “No, you’re unbelievable. This isn’t something you mess around with, honey—Yes, sorry.” he continues to glare at you, contrast to his polite tone toward the receptionist, “I’ll have to apologise, our mail got mixed up in our communal area where the mail is sent to, so she has missed several letters summoning her for a Pap smear…Yes, she is here. I’ll pass her onto you right now.” 

“Don’t you fucking—Hi, yeah, hello.” you lilt. Clark crosses his arms across his broad chest as he watches you carefully. “Yeah, I can come this afternoon. Yeah. I’m aware of the importance of getting checked. Absolutely, I will see you at 2PM. Thank you for your time. Okay. Bye.” 

You hand Clark back his phone without a word and trudge through to the bathroom to take a shower in the lead up to the spontaneous—and well overdue—appointment with your OB-GYN. Clark watches you disappear into the bathroom with a satisfied smirk on his face, the unsteadiness of his heart at a more steady pace now that you had been booked in promptly. 

(The idea of the worst outcome due to your own personal procrastination had blinded him with a new sense of urgency. Clark would move mountains to keep you healthy.)

“See, honey?” he calls down the hallway as you turn the shower on, “Was it that hard?”