Everybody thinks they will keep trying, and they will not. Two is the number. Mine was two.
And after the second one they will stop asking you —
not because they do not love you, but because by then they will have four years of evidence about what you do, collected quietly, from a car park, while you sat beside them and thought you were getting away with it.
And then one ordinary morning you will see a little white bottle on a counter by a coffee machine.
And you will carry it across town in your handbag, and buy them a coffee with a stupid name, and stand at a reception desk and explain to a stranger that your husband has left his medication at home.
May you like
A young deputy stopped my 71-year-old mother and made her stand in the sun for forty minutes. Then he laughed at her temporary license and said she'd made it herself. She asked him one thing: "Would you please say my name over your radio?"
