“You make me sweat when you know that I’m lying,” Dave said the next morning over buttered toast, sausage links, and scrambled eggs.
I filled my coffee mug and offered to top his off. He held out his mug to me.
Closing my bathrobe against the cold draft in the kitchen, I pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. Sunlight spilled in from the north window.
“I wasn’t aware that you were lying,” I said.
He shoveled eggs into his mouth, as if he hadn’t eaten in a week. “Last night.”
I looked at him surprised, my eyes finding his. He looked nervous, and I noticed the fork in his left hand shaking. “Dave, what’s wrong?”
He swallowed his breakfast hurriedly as if he had an appointment, somewhere to go. “I said something last night that I feel ashamed of this morning,” he said, wiping
