[dropcap]J[/dropcap]amie and I made a quick run into Publix before a dinner party. We needed a thank-you card.
I’m not a fan of dinner parties. Especially when the soiree isn’t a dinner at all, but one of those finger-food-until-you’re-sick kind of deals.
Be as it may, we never attend any event without bringing a card with us. This is the South, you might as well kick your hostess in the kneecap. In fact, whenever Jamie exits our house, she brings a box of monogramed stationary along – just in case.
I hate giving ubiquitous thank-you cards. Once, Jamie even sent a thank-you card with me to give the dentist. The dentist turned out to be a twenty-two-year-old teenybopper. When I handed the girl the card, she thanked me and explained she already had a boyfriend.
It was even more awkward when Jamie gave a thank-you card to a State Trooper who pulled her over for doing ninety-five.
Inside Publix, Jamie jogged for the stationary section. I scurried the other way with important business in the beer department. When I was done over there, I headed back toward the Hallmark cards to find Jamie.
I found her, at the end of the aisle. She stood with back turned toward me. I knew what she was doing, she was searching for the perfect card. One that probably said, “Thanks for the finger-food-that-wasn’t-en
But as it happens, the real Jamie had already bought a card.
And was waiting in the car