I like to flirt. I like to tease, and laugh, and smile, and flirt. I like to live dangerously, at least that is what my husband says every time I don’t fill up my gas tank and he is forced to. He lives by a code. If the tank is at a quarter (especially in winter) he fills it up. Me, I flirt with E. I wait for the light to come on. You know the one that says “hey, I’m thristy, fill me up.” At this point I quickly calculate how much further I can go. 20 miles—I looked it up. It may actually be 30 miles, but I give a little wiggle room in case I can’t find a gas station.
This week was no different. The gauge was creeping closer and closer to E. I was smiling, and teasing my little Honda Fit, trying to determine how to get Paul to drive it so that I would not have to fill the tank. That is our running joke–as the car gets closer to E, I find ways to drive his car so he has to fill the tank. It is not always planned, but often happens in my favor and last night was no exception. He took the kids and my car home from karate. I woke up this morning and took his car to drop our daughter off at a friends house. After returning, I make mention of taking his car again. He looks at me, grins, and says “Maybe, just maybe I filled your tank again last night.” My hero, I didn’t have to go out in the cold and complete the dreaded job. I smiled and teased and said “yes, that was my grand plan.” I’m always flirting with E.