She continued, “But getting these ridges onto my forehead, making them blend in with the rest of my head, then there’s the makeup that makes me look like I’ve fallen asleep at the tanning salon, I mean, getting ready for this guy is a major production. Where are the guys who just want to be whipped by the girl next door? Plus, he wants me to torment him without wrinkling his Starfleet uniform.”

“He wears a Starfleet uniform,” I said. “What rank is he?”

“Captain,” Trixie said. “There’s these little gold dots on his collar that supposedly denote rank, but he just tells me to call him Captain, so that’s fine. He’s paying for it. I’m just glad he doesn’t want me to call him Rear Admiral. Imagine what that might entail.”

“I imagine that you are well compensated for your efforts.”

Trixie gave me a half smile. “Absolutely.” The smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Trixie picked at her spinach salad as I twirled some fettuccine carbonara onto my fork.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Nothing.” She picked at her salad some more. “What’s going on with you? Things working out with Sarah as your boss?”

I shrugged, then nodded. I’d been working as a feature writer at The Metropolitan for more than a year now, having accepted the fact that I could not make a go of it staying home and writing science fiction novels. I’d been assigned to Sarah, whose responsibilities at the city desk included overseeing a number of feature writers, some neurotic, some egotistical, some neurotically egotistical, and then there was me, her obsessive, often pain-in-the-ass, husband.

“Oh sure,” I said. “I mean, she wants to kill me, but other than that, the relationship is working well.” I had a bite of pasta. “I’m on the newsroom safety committee.”

“There’s a surprise,” Trixie said.

“It’s no joke. We’ve got air quality issues, radiation off the computer screens, there’s-”