He was the kind of man who checked his watch again every time his wife plucked another outfit off the rack at Penny's—but who wouldn't let her go by herself. She was the kind of woman who couldn't stop plucking outfits, like they were wildflowers and she was a vase, and who thought, "I'm worth it" every time she bought something.

They spent four hours there on Sunday, plucking and checking and plucking and checking, and finally checking out. He stood there with his hands on his hips, like he could get in the way of anything with just a grimace, and his hand made a fist around their credit card, going up and swiping down, going up and swiping down. "I'm worth it, I'm worth it, I'm worth it," she whispered.

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