We were having scrambled eggs in our own kitchen after the cocktail party. Moments before, Douglas had been disgruntled, as whiny as a child, much as he always was after cocktail parties where he hadn’t eaten enough to call it dinner but had eaten too much to want a real dinner once he got home. In all the years of your own long marriage, in all your years of “getting things done” at cocktail parties and garden parties, I bet you went through this, too. Doug complained when I offered to throw some steaks on the grill—it was too late, he’d be up all night with acid reflux—and complained again
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