"Do you like it?" Jussie asks, holding out her wrist as we walk.

The little black heart swings in the air. Other women I've dated before her wouldn't have been satisfied with anything that didn't come out of a Tiffani's box, yet here she was, flashing secondhand jewelry and being proud of it. I take her hand and kiss her small knuckles right above her wedding ring.

"Beautiful," I tell her.

We stroll Toward the busy brick building that houses Pier Olivia's. We're right on time for our reservations and get seated promptly at one of the best tables. Everything is going great. Our waitress is attentive, our food is prepared quickly and to perfection. Nothing is wrong, so I wonder why Jussie seems agitated. It seemed to get stronger every minute. Her looks grow deeper, her words a little more sharp. When I try to make casual conversation, she's being short. I try to hold her hand, but she finds a reason to pull it away. A cough. Straightening a napkin. She is even rude to our waitress a few times--which shocks me, but I hardly think in public is the best place to discuss it.

It isn't until we get to the car that I feel the urge to get to the bottom of her mood. I turn to Jussie. Her critical body language is noticeable. How tight her shoulders are. The way she avoids looking at me. The uncharacteristic flat line of her lips sets me on edge. I don't like seeing her unhappy.

"What's going on? Are you okay, hon?" I ask, hoping she hasn't fallen ill.

"Really, Richard?" Jussie blurts as if releasing a floodgate.

My face is a reflection of my genuine confusion.

"Why didn't you just ask for her number?"

"Whose number?"

"Our waitress. Tammy." Her voice changes to a nasty sniveling sound when she says the name.

I laugh, honestly thinking she's joking. Her stony expression doesn't change, so I try to recover by clearing my throat. "You're serious?"

"Yes," she says hatefully. "You think I wouldn't notice you flirting with her all night?"

This was totally unexpected. She has never shown the slightest hint of insecurity before, least of all when it came to other women and me. I hadn't flirted at all, nor would I. How could she think this?

"How did I flirt?" I ask.

"With that look you do. You were smiling at her the whole time, sending her hidden messages."

"I was smiling because I was happy to be there with you. And I have no clue what you mean by messages. Do you think I spelled out a bread crumb morse code in my plate?" I chuckle, which clearly makes her angrier.

We argue--something we never do--all the way home. For some reason, she is convinced that I've been flirting with another woman. Nothing I can say will prove otherwise, yet she can't prove her accusations to be true. It is so bizarre, I can't help thinking there is an underlying reason for her behavior. I'm relieved when she finally goes to bed and leaves me to finish some last minute work for a shampoo account.