At the end of our first date, I went to take out my wallet when the bill came. (I never assume anything when the check comes.)
"No, please. I've got it," he said. He put his hand up as if he was saying, "Put that wallet away, lady. I'm taking care of you tonight."
I smiled. As I put my wallet back in my purse, he whipped his out from his back pocket. To my delight, he produced a raggedy cloth wallet. How unpretentious! How simple! It even made that tell-tale screeeeech sound as he pulled the velcro apart to dig out his cash. My heart did a cartwheel.
I'm sure he's had it forever. You can tell because it's slightly curved from years of clinging to his ass. It was like a worn-in baseball glove, totally molded to his body. He probably got it in Chinatown for $2. Thrifty AND stylish!
And, it was thin: cash, credit cards, and air THAT'S IT. No stray scraps of paper. No receipts. No Subway club cards. No expired lotto tickets. This baby was a lean mean wallet machine. If it was a police officer, it would probably say things like, "Just the facts, Ma'am" or "Move it along folks, nothing to see here." If this wallet drank coffee, it'd take it black. If it drank whiskey, it'd drink it neat. No frills, no fuss. I can respect that.
Bravo, my dear. Bravo.