A wife questioning her husband, for some reason suspecting me.
“Who is all going to be there and what kind of ‘Editorial Meeting’ is this going to be?” she asked of her husband, while she looked me in the eyes, scrutinizing my every facial expression and hand gesture for any one of the FBI’s Twelve Signs of Truth Omission:
1.) Darting eyes
2.) Rapid blinking
3.) How long my eyes are closed.
4.) Looking up to the right
5.) Eye shift from left to right.
6.) Looking down to the right.
7.) Eye movement when smiling
8.) Face touching.
9.) Pursed lip actions
10.) Excessive sweating.
11.) Blushing
12.) Head shaking
(All of which are why I’ve learned to always wear sunglasses and an ear bud to such interrogations to counteract suspicion.)
She stepped away from the kitchen counter that she had been leaning against to close the gap between them, and lowered her head to catch hubby’s gaze toward the floor.
Funny how your childhood comes back to a person during times like that, when you find yourself looking into Johnny’s mother’s eyes that somehow say, inexplicably,
“What demented deeds and doings have you infected my son (or husband in this case), with this time, you scum-sucking bottom feeder?”
It’s like I’ve unwittingly affected my friends like that all my life, at least their wives--or their mothers--have thought so. Do I look like someone who would rather drink a few beers around a campfire or someone who would rather sip distilled water and discuss socio-economic stress disorders?
Okay, so I’m both. (You can’t imagine the buzz you can get from three bottles of distilled water.)
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