“It’s all right,” she said quickly. “It happens. Do you maybe have cash? Or I can suspend the transaction while you call your bank.”
Cash. I opened my wallet. No meaningful cash, because why would I carry it? I lived in a world of automatic drafts, wire transfers, private bankers, online statements. There was a folded twenty-dollar bill I kept for emergencies, two receipts, my driver’s license, and a faded photograph of Warren on our thirtieth anniversary, tucked into the clear flap behind the cards. In the picture he was wearing the navy blazer I bought him after we expanded into our fourth dealership. His smile was crooked, his hair a little too long, his tie already loosened because he hated ties and wore them only when custom forced him. He looked like a man who had spent the morning shaking hands and the afternoon longing to get back to a service bay. He also looked like a man who would never, ever let me be embarrassed in a grocery line while strangers looked on.
“I’ll leave the cart,” I said, gathering my purse and my useless cards and that poor shredded remnant of dignity. “I’m sorry for the trouble.”