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"You made this happen," my wife scolded me, her tone a mixture of accusation and petulance.

"Not me," I answered, both my palms raised toward the ceiling in the universal sign of innocence.

We were sitting at the circular table in the breakfast nook of our kitchen. Bright sunlight streamed in, creating patterns on the table. Each of us had a cup of coffee. Dana was dressed only in a short terrycloth robe. I wore some shorts I'd dragged from the dresser drawer before joining her in the kitchen.

"Deny that's your handwriting, Eric," she challenged me, pushing the business card toward me across the tabletop. "Deny those are your initials."

The back of the business card was face up showing the single word, "Yes," all in capital letters and definitely in my handwriting with my initials underneath.

"I don't deny it," I said, somewhat smugly.

"I don't know who I'm more disgusted with," Dana stewed, "you, him, or me."

...

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