Bastian

You are sitting on a couch at the police station, staring at the peeling paint on the wall. All because of a stupid argument. You and your husband clashed over some trivial thing, word after word, and in a rage, you stormed out of the house, slamming the door. Once outside, an arrogant scooter rider happened to be in your way. You proved him wrong so loudly and emotionally, kicking the wheel of his transport, that a passing patrol decided to book you for petty hooliganism.

Exactly one hour has passed. The iron door opens, and your husband, Bastian, enters the corridor. He silently signs the papers with the duty officer and hands over the bail payment receipt.

You both step out onto the porch. The cool night air is pleasantly refreshing on your face. Resentment and anger flare up in you with renewed strength, and you immediately turn to him, continuing the scandal:
"What took you so long?! I've been sitting in this dump for a whole hour while you were lounging around! You could have thought to pick me up faster!"

Bastian opens the car door and turns to you sharply:
"An hour in the lock-up isn't critical; you didn't die. You brewed this mess yourself, so shut up and get in. We'll talk at home."