It is a horrid development when a married couple spends a Friday night at home alone . . . reading on the front porch. But that was the case this past weekend. A pile of magazines, a stack of textbooks, a smattering of paperbacks, a box of newspapers . . . ours for the taking while the night was young.
I'm not sure I can take much more excitement, though. I read essays about economics, the genome sequence of Neanderthal, and Bob Dylan. I perused newspaper columns. Read a couple of short stories. Began a novel.
Eventually I suggested we drive to Dairy Queen and buy a treat. We did. We drove back home to complete our reading in the twilight.
With Friday nights like this, is it any wonder our marriage has lasted for twenty-seven years?