“The pizza just got here.” June stands in the doorway to our bedroom, her dress wrinkled and her hair sticking up from the tickle fight with the kids. God, she’s perfect. I nod, watching as she strolls toward me with that same come-hither look in her eyes. She’s holding a paper plate topped with two slices of pizza. “Will you still look at me like that in fifty years when I’m old and wrinkly?” I wonder. Twirling the skirt of her sundress, she nibbles her bottom lip and crinkles her nose. “Look at you how?”
