I knew something was wrong when my husband walked through the door, dropped himself into a kitchen chair and let out a sigh of frustration.
"What's going on?" I asked apprehensively.
With his elbow on the table and his cheek pressed against his fist, Dana followed me across the room with his eyes and waited as I sat down. After a long moment of tension-building silence, he finally spoke: "I got picked up on the way home from work."
"By the cops?" I asked. (Hey, someone else could have picked him up. Personally I think my husband is hot.)
"Why? What'd you do?"
He tossed his head back and groaned. "It's a joke. I mean, it really is. I was driving along on the highway, and this pheasant came out of the ditch and flew right in front the truck."
Of course, it had to be something convoluted. It's never anything simple like speeding or failure to yield with him.
"I couldn't stop in time," he continued. "I hit the pheasant and its carcass flew up in the air, over the top of the truck and landed on the police cruiser's windshield."
"And they stopped you for that? It's not like you did it on purpose."
"The officer didn't see it that way. He gave me a ticket."
"A ticket? For what?"
Dana looked away, pursing his lips until a smile, and then a laugh, pulled them apart. "For flipping him the bird."
I guess I should have listened when he told me it was a joke.