He had sat at his computer, found a logo, typed up a fake address and made up an appointment time.

He had printed it, folded it and handed it to me in our own living room.

He cooked dinner and planned a vacation, knowing the whole time that the paper was worthless.

I opened the desk’s top drawer and took out a fresh legal pad.

I wrote down the fake address and the dead phone number.

The pleasant dinner we’d just eaten wasn’t an apology.

It was a tactic.