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I promise this is the least sexy part of this story: I had to transfer title to some property to a trust--accountant's orders--and I needed a notary. I wasn't sure why I knew that Abby, who my wife, Jenna, had met and befriended first through business and later through frequent coffee dates and girls'-night drinks, was a notary. I do remember it being a long story that ended with her keeping her notary license for convenience even though her only need for it was several jobs ago. I wasn't even sure she still worked. The important thing for me was that I had access to someone who might notarize the papers for me right now, on a Friday night, so that I could finish the transaction by Saturday morning. End of boring part.

Abby, I should mention, is gorgeous. She's maybe five-foot-ten with long, lean legs, a former college volleyball player with a blonde pony-tail and all-American good looks. We played doubles tennis with her and a neighbor of hers, Liz, a couple of times. Liz was about as terrible as Jenna and I were, but Abby moved quicker than I expected, given her long strides, and could really pound the ball from the baseline. Plus, she was so competitive that the rest of us could only laugh. The first time we played, I had a bruise from a ball she put directly into my abdomen while I was distracted, admiring her long legs in the short skirt she wore. Or maybe I was distracted by the pretty petite brunette Liz, or my own wife bending forward to anticipate a shot. Did I mention I love tennis? In any event: cannon shot to the gut, courtesy of Abby. But I digress. ...

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