I'm on my cellphone, talking to my wife, trying to ascertain the degree of tardiness of her train. I'm bored of waiting and I need to know whether it might be well worth my time to go home and return back to the train station armed with some reading material, pillows and a blanket. The wife says that won't be necessary, she is just about 5 minutes away. However, she continues, she is in a mood for some South Indian food and it would make her day if her desire for the same were to be fulfilled.
Bah, I grumble. I begin to do some mental time calculations, trying to determine if there is enough time for me to work out, go home, get liquored up in time for monday night football and yet fit South Indian food in between somewhere.
My wife senses my hesitation and uses her favorite technique for breaking my will. She embarks on a delightful narration of the gustatory adventure involving idlis, sambar and coconut chutney that she anticipates indulging in tonight. Lovingly, she describes the acute and overwhelming pleasure she would experience with her first bite of a steaming idli, how the spoonful of hot spicy sambar would mingle with the idli flour, closely followed thereafter by coconut chutney. She then describes to me how idli, sambar and coconut chutney would then mingle with each other, intertwined in a passionate ménage à trois of flavor and texture, which would then culminate in a final taste explosion never seen nor heard of in all eternity.
Enough, I say. I give up. Place an order for take out. Happily, my wife agrees.
As we drive to the South Indian eating joint, I see my wife rummage through her purse. My thoughts begin to wander aimlessly.
I wonder if purses serve any purpose whatsoever? Why do they need a purse if there's also a wallet inside the purse?
I wonder how much time women spend in a single lifetime just rummaging through their purses.
What is she looking for anyways?
Her credit card, maybe. She needs to pay for the food.
Didn't she tell me last time the owner refused to accept her credit card and asked for cash?
I wonder if she has cash on her. Probably not. She never does.
I wonder if she realized I flicked the 20 dollar bill she left on the dresser thursday night.
She will probably ask me for cash if she is out.
Do I have cash? What if I don't?
I don't think I do. I always spend all my cash on the weekend.
No, but didn't I get cashback at the grocery yesterday? Yeah, I did.
I distinctly remember asking for cashback, even putting it on my credit card.
Wait a minute, I'm pretty sure the grocery store clerk never gave me back my cash. And I was so overwhelmed by the sheer amount of stuff I bought that I never realized that.
The grocery store owes me 20 bucks. Fuck.
And just like that, my meandering hazy musings led me to cash, riches and happiness. I then went to the grocery store, got my 20 bucks and lived happily ever after.