The pineapple magnet had one corner curling off the refrigerator door, and the ticket I slid under it stuck out a quarter inch at the bottom.

I pressed the magnet flat with my thumb.

It lifted again the second I let go.

“Two dollars,” Gary said from the table.

“Every Friday.”

I turned the ticket so the numbers faced the wall, the same six I have played since 2006.

Blue ballpoint, and my name on the back, Patricia Dunn, the way I have signed every one of them for nineteen years.

“Throwing away another two dollars on a piece of paper, Patty.”

“It comes out of the grocery money, is all.” I carried my cup to the sink.

“You never minded before.”

“Before, I had the sense to notice.” He patted his back pocket, once, then again.

The kitchen radio was on low, a farm market report out of Columbus.

He reached over and shut it off when I set my cup down.

“You’d think a man could hear the weather,” I said.

“You’d think a woman could hear her husband.” Then he laughed, the old laugh, and I let it go.

He took his mug to the sink and left it there with an inch of coffee in the bottom.

The back door slapped shut.

The truck started on the third try, and the belt squealed all the way out of the driveway.