The sales associate took one look at my clothes and let her lip curl. "Ma'am, we operate on an allocation basis. We don't accommodate browsers who aren't here to purchase."
I said nothing. I simply pulled out the black authorized-user card.
"I'll take every color. Except green."
Her eyes lit up like a slot machine hitting jackpot, and a syrupy smile spread across her face. "Of course! Just one moment, I'll have everything prepared for you right away."
The card reader beeped again and again.
Each transaction would ping a notification straight to Thaddeus's phone.
I could picture his face.
But this was only the beginning.
I was going to make his last three months feel like an eternity of despair.
I stepped out of the store with shopping bags swinging from both hands and drew a long, deep breath.
Thaddeus, you wanted a divorce. Here's my parting gift.
One you'll remember for the rest of your life.
On the way home, I had the driver pull over at the market.
The doctors said late-stage pancreatic cancer patients couldn't tolerate greasy, sugary, hard-to-digest food. It would cause excruciating pain and accelerate the disease.