I was sitting sideways in the passenger seat of the truck as my husband pulled through the drive-through window of a fast food restaurant. He pulled out his credit card, and with a mischevious grin, swiped the card between my thighs.
I opened my mouth in indignation when he poked me in the forehead four times.
“What the hell was that??”
“I had to punch in my pin number.”
Seriously, people, when he dies, I had nothing to do with it.