Marsha, my wife, loves shoes. All kinds. Tennis shoes, flip flops, bedroom slippers. Those high-heeled ones look funny on her kankles. She’s 300 pounds for Christ’s sake. What does she need so many shoes for?

We were at Target buying groceries. She was wearing that big green T-shirt with stretchy jeans and leopard print shoes. I should’ve known not to go, but she looked at me with those deep green eyes, pushed my hair behind one ear, said “Please” and I remembered why I love her.

We were standing by the seasonal isle – bright plastic beach pales and little drink umbrellas – when she saw them. Sandals. Brown. Something you’d wear to match your toga. These little round jewels were stuck to the straps. I just couldn’t let her buy those shoes.

“What d’ya need those for? Don’t you have some just like ‘em? Don’t get em, Marsha.”
I knew what she’d say. I knew it before the words came outta her mouth. She smiled. “Well, I’ll just come back tomorrow while you’re at work.” I just couldn’t let her buy those shoes.