“The answer is obvious,” I’d tell him, pursing some Kim Basinger lips.
“It is?” he’d ask, pushing a lump of greasy hair out of his sleep-crusty eyes.
“Easy,” I’d say. “Being apart.”
“That’s very accurate,” the man would say, clipping off my PlastiCuff. “You can go.”
“Excellent,” I’d say, rubbing my wrists.
Then I’d pull some intricate karate move on him and restrain him until the FBI arrived.
I was thinking of this while I had my eyes closed on the plane last week. I was mid-flight from Detroit to Lexington, and it’s possible, given the absurdity of the idea that I have Kim Basinger lips, that I was partly sleeping. But dream or not, when I opened my eyes, I knew my answer was right and was never so excited to see my husband.