So I'm putting stuff in the recycling. "I know," Top Management grumbles, as I pick up a Coke can. "I just wanted one, okay? I hadn't had one in a while."
She gets a look on her face, as we both think more or less the same thing.
"I mean, except for the one I had yesterday."
I bury my face in her neck, overcome with adoration. "What are the odds?" I murmur.
She doesn't have to ask "of what," because we both know I mean what are the odds that her first college would be sold to the Japanese and that we would meet half a continent away shortly after our 20th birthdays in a play in which she was amazing and I mostly knew my lines and what are the odds we'd still be together 30 years later and more in love than ever?
"Slim," she replies matter-of-factly, then recalculates using her characteristic method of estimating something, anything. "Seven or eight miles, maybe."
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