I would never do anything to wound my wife’s pride.

After all, she has a brother for that.

So when I saw this strong, level-headed woman toss away a Nordstrom’s postcard with the word “Sale” on it, I feared the worst. My wife had early onset Alzheimer’s.

Or we were bankrupt.

In either case, we needed a cash infusion, and we needed it fast. As a man, that job fell to me.

Fortunately, I’d been following the latest stories about companies whose ideas caused digital disruptions. Those companies were worth billions.

More if they ever created a product.

All I needed was an idea, a prototype, and a few days trolling for seed money in Silicon Valley.

It took a few hours but I finally had the first two ready to go. I fished the postcard out of the trash before leading my wife into the kitchen.

“One word,” I told her. “Psychics.”

Laughter was the way she greeted many of my previous ideas, so her silence was encouraging. Though I wish her sounds of silence hadn’t lasted as long as Simon and Garfunkle’s rendition.

“Psychics have been using the same methods of predicting the future for hundreds of years,” I said.

“And what would that be?”

“Not important. What counts is how that makes the industry ripe for digital disruption.”

“Psychics are an industry?”

“They have their own industry code—799955. Just like the carnival industry and the miniature golf industry. It’s assigned by the government.”

“Ours or Romania’s?”

“I doubt Romania has a miniature golf industry,” I said as I whisked our good linen tablecloth off the prototype. My wife was stunned.

“Is that my mother’s crystal serving bowl?”

I pointed out that it’s hard to get a crystal ball on short notice. Even if you’re a member of Amazon Prime.

“Crystal balls are a lot smaller,” she said. “Do you intend to disrupt only nearsighted psychics?”

“Just a prototype,” I hummed as I went about setting up. “But it does have to hide the iPad.”

She peered into the bowl. “You’re using Siri to predict the future? Didn’t you complain she can’t get yesterday’s weather right?”

“Not Siri. Big Data.”

I explained how there was a plethora of personal data on the internet, and software to massage it, and how Target predicted one of its teen-aged customers was pregnant just from the change in her buying habits.

I didn’t mention the parents’ lawsuit. My wife had enough to worry about managing our rapidly dwindling finances.

I peered into the crystal bowl. “The spirits are with us tonight.”

I got the look.

“I want you to get the full experience,” I said. “Name?”

“You tell me. You’re the psychic.”

I chastised her for her reticence.

“I want you to get the full experience,” she said. Needless to say, with that attitude it took a while to pry loose her address and date of birth.

“Am I supposed to notice the keyboard in your lap?” she said.

“Just a prototype,” I chirped with a smile. “The spirits are…uh…say, why did you buy a gift certificate for a couples massage?”

She looked at the ceiling, the floor, her nails, and the oven timer.

In the crystal bowl I saw myself on the cover of Time magazine being handed a billion-dollar check by a venture capitalist.

“Did you think about a surprise for our anniversary next week?” she said. “Because I did.”

I handed her the Nordstrom’s sale announcement. “Maybe I spent a little too much,” she sighed as she pushed it away.

When I looked into the bowl again I saw my whole life flash before my eyes.

And I noticed that billion-dollar check had bounced.