Bag of Pretzels

At the grocery store, I pick up orange juice and cat food and a few other essentials.  I'm on my way to the check-out when I see my husband's favorite pretzels.  I know that the bag at home is almost empty and yet I hesitate.  I'm feeling vaguely annoyed with him at the moment, the result of a disagreement from the previous evening.  I try to remember the details and cannot, but the irritation remains and I walk past the pretzels. 

Inside my head, I listen to my generous self argue with my petty self.  It's an old, old debate and I know both sides by heart.  Why is it so hard, I wonder, to do the right thing?  The kind thing?  Or is it only hard for me?  I turn around and go back to the snack aisle. 

At home, I put the pretzels on the kitchen counter so my husband will see them and not buy any.  A note tells me he's gone to the bank and the bakery.  I'm upstair when he returns and later, when I come down, I see two cookies in a plastic bag next to the pretzels.  "They had peanutbutter," my husband says.  "Your favorite."