Normally, a faux pas implies uttering words that shouldn't have been said. They're words that should never have left one's mouth, at least not at that particular moment. For example, gloating about the longevity in one's family, in the company of someone who's recently suffered the premature loss of a loved one, could be considered a faux pas. On the other hand, boasting about habitually exceeding the speed limit to one's neighbor—who also happens to be a cop—is less a faux pas than an incomprehensible lapse of reason.

Looking back on it from yesterday's vantage point, last week had such a dreamlike quality that I wondered if I had been in a coma. Looking back on yesterday from today's compos mentis vantage point, I now understand that I wasn't in a coma at all. I was in a comma.

Chewing my food at the local café, I saw a young lady I'd met some time ago sitting alone, so I decided to insinuate myself—and my half-eaten sandwich—into her lunch break. By the time she noticed my trajectory it was too late, and I was able to slide into the booth before she had the chance to plan an escape.

"Sitgoin?" I said, my mouth packed with tuna and rye.

She managed a smile. "Good. I'm good. You know, I was just . . . "