My husband is a saint. He continues to claim me as his wife and best friend, even after discovering my unnatural obsession with all things show-tuney, and the frighteningly selective cognitive recall I possess, exhibited in my irritating ability to sing every single stinking song in such musicals as "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers," "Bye Bye Birdie," "The King and I" and "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat." Though I have absolutely no clue what I was supposed to buy at the supermarket. That, my friends, is love.
We enter the crowded waiting room, take a number and sit. "What number do you have?" Dad asks. "87." "Can you read that?" he asks. "What does it say?" "Why is it taking so long?" I answer. He pauses, then, "Can you read that?" "What number do you have?" For 40 minutes straight he asks and I answer again and again and again. Finally it's number 86's turn. The gentleman passes me his number and says to Dad, "It's your turn, buddy." I am so grateful I almost cry. Instead I smile and say, "Thank you," and help Dad down the hall.
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