Monica

We grow old rightly,” she said as she arranged the peonies in a vase.

“Ha, I still remember the day we met and you told me, ‘I don’t want to save your soul.'”

She smiled wryly, “And I didn’t!”

“Well,” he teased her, “I don’t think we’re any closer to finding answers, nuanced or otherwise, to all of our great questions.”

Now her eyes glinted mischievously, “I believe you started off with ‘Why is modern man unhappy?'”

He groaned.

“Still unhappy?” she asked as she came around and bumped him with her hip.

He put his hand on her waist and pulled her closer. “I think I answered that in that terrible poem I eventually wrote for your birthday.”

“I liked that you liked poetry.”

“I didn’t!”

He paused and then asked, “What did you mean when you said ‘we grow old rightly’ just now?”

The oven timer went off loudly in the other room.

She looked at him. “If we were perfect, there would be things we wouldn’t think to want.”

“Like what?”

She hunched her shoulders and scanned the room as if looking for words.

“Like being here right now.”

His face darkened momentarily. “I still can’t believe they couldn’t find our reservation.”

She quickly continued, “And how they didn’t have any yellow roses at the flower shop and you brought me these instead.”

“Okay, that’s a bit easier to see.”

She gave his shoulder an approving squeeze and walked over to the kitchen.

He got out a couple of wine glasses.  “Well, at least we have that bottle we’ve been saving,” he called out to the other room.

She came back in carrying two plates. “To go with that, only the finest oven-warmed pizza.”

“Hmm, growing old rightly feels a bit like being back in college.”

She smiled, sat down, and raised her glass.

He lifted his to meet hers and toasted, “Happy Anniversary, love.”