So I’m in that surreal, hazy state of mind brought on by jet lag and lack of sleep and she says, “I need to talk to you.” We sit down at the dining room table and she begins speaking in a very soft voice, presumably so that the neighbors, who live a hundred yards away, won’t be able to hear us. She says something about her dresser, and I say, “What dresser?”
“You don’t know?”
“No. I’m not familiar with your furniture. I never go in your bedroom.”
“Well, I found this.” She shows me a beige jersey sweater with sequins around the neckline. “You put it there, right? It’s not mine. I would never buy something all sparkly like this.”
Maybe she bought it for me, thinking I would like it, and then forgot all about it. But I don’t say this. “Could it be that someone gave it to you and you forgot?” I say.
She shakes her head. “If you didn’t put it there, then someone else did.”
“Listen,” I say. “Who but Santa Claus would go around hiding presents in your drawers?”
She chuckles, but I have done nothing to set her mind at rest. “If it wasn’t you, then someone else is coming into my house. It’s scary over there.”