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“How did you know that?” I asked, stopping in front of her and taking the bottle from her hand.
Her eyes looked bright as she smiled up at me and said, “Because you showed me the plans.”
I turned the bottle away and popped it, feeling absurdly, ridiculously, under-the-influence-of-something-illegal happy as I looked down at my bride. “And you remembered.”
“And I remembered,” she said, leaning back on her elbows and watching the liquid flow out of the bottle.
“Have I ever told you that you’re my goddamn favorite person?” I held up the bottle so it didn’t spill as I put a knee on the mattress and climbed over her.
“You have,” she said, gettingthatlook on her face as she reached out a hand and tilted the bottle the tiniest bit, so the bubbly liquid dampened the top of her lacy camisole and made it completely see-through. “But why don’t you show me instead?”
“God, I love you so much,” I said, nearly ripping off my jacket in my enthusiasm to toast my beautiful wife.
“I love you, too,” she replied, then squealed as I proceeded to “accidentally” spill a little more bubbly in my quest to get obscenely intoxicated on my wife’s wedding champagne.
There was literally nothing in our life that I would ever object to everagain.
