And yet.

I could stand by the cart, guard the purse while Sarah perused sauce. But what about next time, when I wasn’t with her? While she had her back turned for only a minute, someone would quietly loop his hand around the strap and tuck that purse inside his jacket.

I had the power to do something instructive. Something helpful.

I sidled past the cart, empty but for a package of low-fat cookies. Was Sarah about to make us all start watching our calories? I came up alongside her and said, “You almost done?”

“I thought it wouldn’t hurt to pick up a couple of extra things. You know how you walk around, you see things you need that you forgot you needed.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, sneaking a look back at the cart. “Look,” I said. “If you don’t mind, since it looks like you’re going to be in here longer than you originally planned, I’m going to go wait for you in the car.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” she said, grabbing a bottle of extra-spicy sauce. “Do we like this?”

“The kids hate it,” I said. I turned and walked away. As I went past the cart, I grabbed hold of the purse in one smooth motion, clutching it with my left hand, sweeping it under my jacket, and holding it there with my right arm. I sailed up the rest of the aisle, trying not to look too suspicious. I suspect that most purse snatchers look the part, their eyes darting back and forth, the whole furtive-glance thing. My expression was different. I looked smug. I had on one of those smiles, not where your teeth show, but where your lips are pressed together and your cheeks puff out. A self-satisfied smirk. A real son-of-a-bitch grin.

I exited past the newsstand, the automatic doors parting before me, still holding the purse tight against my body under my jacket. I didn’t want anyone to see me walking with it, not because someone might think I was stealing a purse, but because no guy wants to be seen holding a purse for any reason, even a legitimate one.

With my left hand I reached into my jacket pocket and withdrew my car keys. I pushed the button on the remote key that pops the trunk, and as I approached our Toyota, the rear lid gently yawned. I lifted it open wider, leaned over the cavity, and let the purse slip out.

It was heavy. This was the other thing about Sarah’s purse. The odd time when she does hand it to me, I can’t believe how much it weighs. Half of this, she tells me, is change. Whenever she gets change, rather than take the time to put it into the zippered pouch of her wallet, she just throws it into the bottom of her purse. It’s like the bottom of a fountain in there, only not as wet.

I wasn’t too worried about hiding her purse in the trunk. I knew that when she came out from the store, she wouldn’t have any groceries to put in there, because by then she’d have found out she had no way to pay for them. This, I told myself, was going to be absolutely beautiful.

I got in behind the wheel, slipped the key into the ignition, and turned on the radio, not really listening to what was playing. I was overwhelmed by a tingly, anticipatory feeling, not unlike the sensation I had as a child when I would hide in my sister Cindy’s bedroom closet after school, waiting for her to come upstairs. I’d crouch in there, trying not to move or breathe for fear of rattling the hangers, waiting for the door to open, so I could spring out, scream “Ahhhhh!” and relish Cindy’s look of horror and amazement. That was how I felt, sitting out there in the car, in the parking lot of Mindy’s Market, waiting for Sarah to come out, to get in the car with her own look of horror and amazement, to tell me that when she went to put her sauce in the cart, she discovered that her purse was gone.

I wasn’t sure how long to let this go on. Not very, I figured. Just long enough to make the point. She’d be angry, no doubt, but later, I had a hunch she’d thank me. She’d realize that when you’ve got a choice between having your purse snatched by your husband and someone you don’t know, there are fewer credit cards to cancel when it’s the former.

The car was parked in such a way that I could see the store in my rear-view mirror, and I kept watching for Sarah. “Come on,” I whispered.

And then suddenly there she was, striding toward the car.

“Showtime!” I said to myself.

There was no purse slung over her shoulder and, consequently, no groceries. Not looking very happy, but yet, not as unhappy as I’d expected her to look. Not running, no look of panic about her, exactly. Maybe she was on to me. Maybe she’d spotted me running off with her purse but hadn’t let on. Maybe she was looking to turn the tables on me again.

She came up the passenger side, opened the door, and got in.

“God,” she said.

I was hesitant. “What?”

“We have to go to General Mart. I couldn’t believe their price on romaine. I don’t care if we can afford it, I’m just not going to pay that kind of price. It’s an outrage.”

“But what about the other stuff?”

“They didn’t have the fabric softener I like, and by then I didn’t even check the steaks. I knew we’d have to go someplace else, so I just put back the sauce and decided to hell with it. So let’s go.”

Okay, I thought. So she hadn’t even needed her wallet, which meant she didn’t have to go into her purse, which meant she hadn’t even noticed that it was missing. It’s really terrible when you’ve got a surprise all worked out and the victim won’t cooperate.

As I backed out of the spot and turned left out of the lot, heading for General Mart, I pondered how long I wanted to let this play out. When she got to the checkout line at General? I didn’t know that I could wait that long for the payoff. I wanted Sarah to learn her lesson now. The point would get made, I’d get my sense of satisfaction, and Sarah could start getting indignant right away, instead of later.

We were coming up on a light when I said, ever so casually, “Uh, where’s your purse?”

And Sarah’s whole body stiffened for a second, the way mine used to when I’d be on the subway and, for a moment, think I’d misplaced my wallet, and my stomach would do cartwheels. But I could reach around at those moments and feel my back pocket and be reassured that my wallet was in its proper place. Sarah was going to have no such option.

But then she laughed. A short chortle.

“I almost forgot,” she said. “I didn’t bring it.”

The light turned yellow and I slowed. As it turned red, I said, “What do you mean, you didn’t bring it?”

“Well, it’s so heavy, I’ve started using this.” She leaned back in the seat, opened up her jacket, and pointed to the black leather pouch she had strapped to her waist.

“What the hell is that?”

“You won’t believe this, but I finally decided to listen to you. I think it was that story about the woman who lost her winning lottery ticket in her purse that did it for me. Not that I’ve got a winning ticket. But this forced me to pare down all that useless crap I always carry around, and my shoulder even feels better not carrying all that weight, plus I don’t have to keep my eye out for my purse all the time. Sometimes you’re not the big stupid idiot everyone says you are.”