I slide between the warm flannel sheets and gaze over to the love of my life who is already there waiting for me. He smiles at me. I smile at him. Then, the question I knew was coming:
Him: Did you set the alarm clock?
Me (sighing heavily): For what time?
Him: 5:30 thanks.
I set it then reach for my diary and start writing about my day.
Him: You writing about me?
Me: Yup. I'm writing about all the terrible things you do and the awful way you treat me. All my descendants will see the shit you put me through (I'm actually writing about buying cake decorating equipment). You should keep one too. But you'll have to make up all the bad stuff you put in.
Him (farting loudly): Don't forget to add that.
Me (laughing): Oh, I'm adding it. Trust me (I'm actually adding that I also went grocery shopping).
Him (seriously now): I really do love you, you know that, right?
Me: I do. And I love you too. I add that to my diary, close it and shut the light. I kiss him in the dark and we fall asleep, spooning until morning.
Hey, what did you expect? A steamy love scene? It's been twenty years, people. Two-Zero. We're a couple in a comfortable place in our lives and in our relationship. It may not be for everyone but it works for us. And shock of shocks: We're still happy. Except for the fact that he can't set an alarm clock and farts in the sheets. I can pass on those.