In the mornings, my husband still wakes me up by tickling the inside of my arm with his beard. At night, he still complains that I’m keeping the lights on reading when he wants to go to bed. It’s a nice alternate reality that I visit from time to time, like my taking a drive up the coast on a breezy Saturday (I can’t drive) or pretending like climate change isn’t going to burn my corneas out by the time I’m fifty.
