I tap my glass to Taylor’s, who doesn’t maintain eye contact as we take our first sip. “That’s seven years of bad sex.” I chuckle. “Excuse me?” Taylor chokes on her second sip. “If you break eye contact during a cheers, they say you’re cursed with seven years of bad sex.” Of course, that only makes me think of our world-shattering sex. It’s been four years, and no one has compared to her.
