"Hi honey, I'm---" He stopped, cutting his jovial greeting short, just shy of pushing though the swinging door. Shy? No, that wasn't it. His hand on the door, he shuttered slightly. He was afraid, afraid of what might await him. He hung back, arrested with apprehension, shouldering the weight of Victor Frankenstein, having just reanimated his monster's bride.
"It's Angela," Tony reminded himself. "Your Angela," he repeated, straighting up, lest his ever imposing superego dared to call him chicken. Angela, at her own uging, and to her housekeeper's chagrin, in daring to play Ms. Mom had morphed from a confident and capable executive to a simpering she-devil, lacking in both instinct and estrogen.
"...And it's only day three," he whined pitfully to himself.