It was only a ’93 Lincoln, but he loved it. Not a ding on it. Only 75,000 miles, even though it was 14 years old. The leather seats were like new, as was the headliner. All the bells and whistles worked, including the cruise control and the power seats and mirrors. It even got 14 miles per gallon. What was not to love?
She hated it. She hated it because she thought he loved his car more than he loved her. “We can’t go anywhere because all you do is worry about what will happen to your car,” she complained. “The last time we went shopping, after an hour you stopped talking and listening to me. You had that long face. I knew what you were thinking about.”
“What was I thinking about?” he asked.
“You were thinking about your Lincoln!” She continued, “When we went out to the parking lot, you walked all around it to check for fresh dings. Then, when you saw none, you unlocked the car and got in. As usual, you didn’t open the door for me because you were so busy adjusting the airflow out of the dashboard vents.”
“I just do that to make you feel comfortable,” he said.
“If you really want to make me comfortable,” she said, “sell this car.”
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