Today I was in line at Michael’s (am I the only one who feels Michael’s’ is practical a spiritual retreat?) behind a woman who was fumbling around in her purse when it came time for her to pay.

“Sorry,” she tossed out to me as I waited, though I didn’t feel the least put out.

As she pulled out a bank card, she said to no one in particular it seemed,

“Oh this one is my husband’s. He’ll have a fit…”

She continued rooting around in her bag where she came upon a ten dollar bill.

“Here,” she said to the cashier, “I’ll use this and then put the rest on his card. Then he won’t be as bad.”

I chuckled and said, “husbands are all alike, huh? I do the same sort of thing when I have to use my husband’s card.”

“Oh yours isn’t like mine,” she said, though no hint of malice in her voice.

“Mine’s a drinker. Drinks too much. Is mean.”

“Oh,” I kind a smiled, “you might be surprised.”