When my husband said it, the table went silent for just half a second.
Long enough for me to wonder if I had heard him wrong.
Then everyone laughed.
We were sitting in one of those polished downtown Denver steakhouses designed to make people feel richer and more important than they really are—amber lighting, dark leather booths, crystal glasses, and a wine list thick enough to double as a legal brief. It was supposed to be an easy dinner. Three other couples. Good steaks. Too much red wine. The kind of night people later describe as effortless.