I obey and pull down a newer Ralph Lauren when an idea hits me. Straight on, like a piano dropping from the sky in one of those old silent movies—I shall teach by example. Yes indeed. I shuffle over to the “long sleeves” area and grab a Nautica off the rack. Button it down in record time and toss a cranberry pullover on for good measure. I’m set. I walk back out into our bedroom to face my wife as she’s finishing her eye makeup. Applying a bit of mascara. And, of course, she’s still in the tank top. I’m about to speak but she beats me to it, one eye fluttering as she brushes that little ebony wand across it.

“Aren’t you gonna be hot?”

“No, it’s by the water.”

“Yeah, but it’s a lake. An inland lake.”

“Right, but …”

“It’s not like we’re going to the ocean or something.”

“I know that …”

“Whatever. Do what you want.”

I look at her shoulder again, that god-awful blemish standing at attention and practically winking at me. The strap of her top keeps catching the edge of it, sometimes even snagging it and getting itself hooked there on the craggy tip. OK, no barbecue for me, I guess. I’m about to throw up.

“Aren’t you going to grab a cardigan or anything? A little jacket?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You sure? There’s gonna be fireworks. We’ll be out late …”

“I said no, now come on, let’s go. We still need to put the deviled eggs in the car, plus the lawn chairs.”

“Right, right. OK. I just thought that …”

And that’s when she catches me. Staring at it. Damn it.

“It bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“What?”

“Oh, please!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I do a complete reversal here, right on the spot, acting as if I don’t know what she’s talking about. It’s an old tactic—medieval, I think—that is so obvious and silly that most women fall for it, or simply let it go in utter exasperation. At the moment, I use it as my only viable option.

“Yes, you do, of course you do! You know EXACTLY what I’m talking about! Why you haven’t said anything about it before now I don’t get, but whatever …”

“Honey, what? Why’re you acting all … ?”

“Just don’t. Don’t do that.”

“I’m not …”

“It bugs you so much, fine, I’ll wear a … it’s just a mole, for God’s sake!”

Now how do I play this? Do I acknowledge what we’re talking about, or continue playing dumb because that’s more believable—guys are usually at their finest when playing dumb. Trust me on that tiny bit of information.

“It doesn’t bother me, not at all. I just asked what it was.”

“Please, it totally bothers you.”