My wife asked me to pick up her prescription from the pharmacy.
I almost said no because it was raining heavily and I had just gotten home from work.
Then she said:
“Please. And whatever you do, don’t ask the pharmacist any questions.”
I laughed.
“Why would I ask questions about your prescription?”
She said:
“Just promise me.���
I thought she was being dramatic.
So I promised.
At the pharmacy, I gave them her name.
The pharmacist disappeared into the back.
When he returned, he was holding a small brown envelope.
He looked at me.
Then at the prescription.
Then back at me.
He asked:
“Are you her husband?”
I said yes.
He lowered his voice.
“Does she know you’re here?”
I immediately remembered what she’d told me.
Don’t ask questions.
I said:
“Yes.”
He handed me the envelope.
But before I could leave, he said:
“Sir, I think you should know that she’s been picking up this medication every Thursday for the last eleven months.”
I looked at the label.
The medication wasn’t for the condition I knew my wife had.
It was for something completely different.
I asked what it was.
The pharmacist hesitated.
Then said:
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t discuss her medical information with you.”
I left.
I didn’t tell my wife what he’d said.
I just handed her the envelope.
She looked at it.
Then looked at me.
“You asked questions.”
I said:
“No.”
She stared at me for a few seconds.
Then quietly said:
“Good.”
That night, she went to bed early.
I couldn’t sleep.
Not because of the medication.
Because of the way she’d said “Good.”
The next morning, I checked our bank statements.
The pharmacy charges were there.
Every Thursday.
For eleven months.
But there was something strange.
The payments weren’t coming from our joint account.
They were coming from an account I didn’t recognize.
I searched the account number online.
Nothing.
So I checked our old tax documents.
I found it.
The account belonged to a small company.
A company registered under my wife’s name.
I had never heard of it.
I waited until she went to work.
Then I opened the laptop we shared.
There was a folder I’d never seen before.
“Thursday.”
Inside were eleven months of receipts.
Pharmacy receipts.
Hotel receipts.
Restaurant receipts.
Gas stations.
All on Thursdays.
I thought she was having an affair.
Honestly, I was almost relieved.
An affair would have been easier to understand.
Then I opened the oldest receipt.
It was from eleven months ago.
The day before the first prescription.
There was a hotel charge.
A hotel about two hours away.
I recognized the name.
hey so, idk who needs to hear this but cannabis is still federally illegal which means NO you CANNOT use tap to pay or a fucking credit card at a dispensary