Three Whole Dollars

Every couple of days, I discover an empty telltale cup of Starbucks in our van. I say that every such cup by the wheel is tantamount to lipstick on a collar. It is a breach of trust.

On his way back from work, my husband will pay $3.45 for a grande latte at Starbucks when he knows that a masala chai—steeped in the goodness of fresh ginger, lemongrass stalk and cardamom powder—is waiting for him at home.

On some other days, the three piddling dollars hover over us like a woolly mammoth. Today we were at a shopping complex inside which we saw a branch of Chase Bank. We needed cash. “There’s an ATM right there,” I said to my man. “Why don’t you get some?”

A few minutes later, he returned to the car. He had decided not to withdraw any cash at the Chase ATM. “The fee is 3 dollars,” he said. “Why on earth would I dole out that much as commission?”

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