“Do you think this graham cracker is okay to eat?” I asked.

Your eyes darted away from the snowy road only briefly. You frowned. “Where did you find that?”

“The glove compartment.”

A sigh, “Would you stop pulling apart every corner of this truck? I don’t want it to fall apart before it hits 100,000 miles.”

You were trying to joke, but I could see the frustration underneath. “I just thought everyone keeps snacks in their glove compartment. I didn’t think you’d mind if I checked.”

But my gambit to lighten the mood didn’t stick, and you answered, “I think a man’s entitled to a little privacy in his own truck.”

And then I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “What—are you hiding something?” I asked. “You didn’t even know about the cracker.”

“It’s the principal of the thing.”

“Principal, schmincipal,” I snorted. “You’re going to have to get used to me poking around in your life.”

The truck stopped. You shifted into park and said, “You mean, once we’re married?”

“No, I mean right now,” I said pointing out the window at a row of pine trees. “There’s no way I’m letting you pick out your own Christmas tree.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

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