But on that occasion-perhaps in an unknowing tune-up for this one-she had elected to ignore the subtext and answer the question.

“It means that you’re still going to be forty-six this winter whether you own a Porsche or not, Gerald… and you’re still going to be thirty pounds overweight.” Cruel, yes, but she could have been downright gratuitous; could have passed on the image which had flashed before her eyes when she had looked at the photograph of the sports car on the front of the glossy brochure Gerald had handed her. In that blink of an instant she had seen a chubby little kid with a pink face and a widow’s peak stuck in the innertube he’d brought to the old swimming hole.

Gerald had snatched the brochure out of her hand and had stalked away without another word. The subject of the Porsche had not been raised since… but she had often seen it in his resentful We Are Not Amused stare.

She was seeing an even hotter version of that stare right now.

“You said it sounded like fun. Those were your exact words: “It sounds like fun."”

Had she said that? She supposed she had. But it had been a mistake. A little goof, that was all, a little slip on the old banana peel. Sure. But how did you tell your husband that when he had his lower lip pooched out like Baby Huey getting ready to do a tantrum?

She didn’t know, so she dropped her gaze… and saw something she didn’t like at all. Gerald’s version of Mr Happy hadn’t wilted a bit. Apparently Mr Happy hadn’t heard about the change of plans.

“Gerald, I just don’t-”

“… feel like it? Well, that’s a hell of a note, isn’t it? I took the whole day off work. And if we spend the night, that means tomorrow morning off, as well.” He brooded over this for a moment, and then repeated: “You said it sounded like fun.”