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"I'm not happily married," said the voice on my cell phone.

"Who is this?" I asked.

"Veronica. We met at the IGA a month or so ago. Remember?"

"How could I forget?" I asked.

Okay, I'd forgotten her name, but I sure hadn't forgotten our meeting. I was at the grocery store in the middle of the day to buy some wine for a date later that night. The produce section caught my eye, because I thought feeding each other some fruit would enhance the mood. I saw a woman in a tight top holding a cantaloupe in each hand. She had the kind of rack and the just-barely-pink shade of skin that black guys like me imagine when we fantasize about doing a white woman. Unable to resist the obvious, I said, "Nice melons."

She looked up at me and noticed that I wasn't quite making eye contact. "Thanks," she said. "They should be, for what I paid for 'em." There was an awkward silence. "I'm Veronica."

"Rick," I said. I tried to look at her fingers, but I couldn't get a clear view. "You married?" She held her hand up and pointed to a gold band. "Happily?"

...

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