Vince and Annie had been snowbound for two days.  While Vince was satisfied reading books all day, Annie needed a better mix of activities and was having trouble not being bored.  She had even taken to writing labels on her vast archive of family photos on Facebook, something she had been meaning to do for at least a decade.  On his way to the refrigerator for a snack, Vince stopped by Annie’s room for a visit.
	“Hello,” said Vince.  “Doing okay today?”
	“I guess,” said Annie, looking up from her computer screen that was filled with photos of Vince taken at various locations over the years.  “Look, here’s a sexy picture of you when your hair was completely black, not one gray hair.”  She stared at Vince, whose thinning hair and full beard were all white.
	“Yeah, that must have been thirty-five years ago.”
	“I know you’re probably tired of me saying this, Vince, but I wish you would smile in photos.  You look unhappy.”
	“How could I be unhappy, married to you?  Of course I’m happy.”
	“Then why don’t you smile?  I know you can smile.  You smile all the time.  Your laughter is one of the things I love about you.”
	“As I’ve said before, I don’t smile on command.  I smile when I mean it.  And people can tell when it’s not sincere.  The forced smile looks fake, like a mannequin.”
	“So, you’re never going to smile in a photo with me?”
	“Oh, I’m sure if you search long enough, you’ll find one in there where we’re both laughing.  Hey, not to change the subject, but I saw a plow go past.  I need to get gas for the snow blower.  I used it all up clearing our driveway, and more snow is on the way.  Come with.  It’ll be good to get out of the house.”

 Few cars were out on the roads, which were icy and gradually being covered with a thin layer of drifting snow.  So, Vince drove well below the speed limit and kept his attention ahead, barely uttering a grunt when Annie pointed out supposed hazards he should watch out for—her self-appointed role when riding shotgun.  Soon at the convenient store, Vince filled his gas container while Annie went inside for coffee, a newspaper, and anything else she thought they might need.  Vince approached the cashier as Annie walked over with her items.
	He looked at the cashier and said, “Nine dollars on pump 2,” nodded his head in the direction of his wife, and added, “plus whatever she has.”  Annie smiled at the cashier, who smiled back.
	The cashier said, “Have a nice day,” as he handed Vince change for a fifty-dollar bill.   Vince took the money, turned to walk away, and muttered, “Yep,” before he continued toward the door.
	When they were in the car, Annie said, “You’re not much for pleasantries, are you?”
	Vince was silent as he focused on maneuvering the car onto the snowy road home, eventually saying, “What do you mean?”
	“Well, the cashier wished you a nice day.  And you respond with a gruff ‘Yep.’”
	“That cashier didn’t mean it.  It’s just something they say.  I’ve been in a line with several people in front of that particular cashier where he says, ‘Have a nice day,’ to everyone, with the exact same inflection and monotone.  No variation.  Like, he could say, ‘HAVE a nice day,’ ‘Have a NICE day,’ or ‘Have a nice DAY.’  Don’t you find that maddening?”
	“No.  It’s a social convention.  The store manager probably tells the cashiers to wish each customer a nice day.  You’re thinking about this too much.”
	Annie was still looking at Vince when the car swerved on a patch of ice, and she screamed as if they had plunged over a cliff.  Vince, though, remained in control of the vehicle and unfazed by either the scream or the swerve as he replied, “No insincere smiling or conversation for me.  That’s why I like the self-checkout.”
	“You are impossible!  You know, I hate to quote George Costanza, as you’re so fond of doing, but ‘We’re living in a society!’”  Vince looked at Annie, smiled, and they both laughed.