When I entered the kitchen my wife was sitting at the table in her bathrobe, arms crossed and face set. "Last night I dreamt I was the private investigator. I was standing outside a seedy motel taking pictures of you having sex with a redhead."
I opened the refrigerator. "Who was the client?"
"That's not funny. I'm still angry."
Realizing breakfast was fast food on the way in, I closed the door and approached her, placed a hand on her shoulder. "Honey, it was a dream."
She looked away. "You're the one who always says where there's smoke there's fire. I must have had the dream for a reason."
I counted to three. "There is no smoke. You were dreaming. There is no redhead. You know I wouldn't cheat on you."
"Actions speak louder than words mister." She spat out the statement as though I'd been caught committing the crime.
"You're actually upset at something I did in a dream."
She shrugged her shoulder away from my hand. "You bet."
I sat. "How do I apologize for something I didn't do?"
"For one thing you can drop that tone of voice."
)
