No, this is not another redhead story. Merciful heavens, she turns 70 this April, so let's just assume she's forgotten a lot...
I went for coffee after the gym and babysitting the dog until my wife got home. I got ready in kind of a hurry, I sensed a long list of "honey dos" on the horizon. We don't celebrate directly on the holiday, but the day after, so Valentine's Day for us is tomorrow.
I pulled into my parking slot (I have one at the Boston Store), ordered my favorite caffeinated beverage (called a "Dead Toad"), went to my table, where a barista appeared out of thin air to wipe my table--yes I tipped her two bucks. Sheesh.
But something was off, majorly off. I patted down the Kimber--cocked and locked and secure in the Bianchi. Touched all four of my pockets and found a Wilson-Rogers in each one. Ran my thumb over my right front pocket, and yes, the Kizer was there.
Then I reached inside my vest. There was no Kurobikari San!
There I was in the mall, with the most dangerous knife in Dane County probably next to the computer!
I went to call my wife, but I had forgotten my flip-phone, as well.
I can hear myself now, 24 years as a polisher down the drain as I would be forced to mutter, "I'm sorry, Achmed, but I have to shoot, I forgot my knife..."
Fortunately they were right where I left them.