The man and I are coming up on thirty-seven years together this summer, thirty four of them as married folk, proof that I was born lucky. That was us, back then.
This morning, he put two eggs in a pot to boil for his breakfast. I noticed that one of them was the cracked egg that I had put back in the carton yesterday, when I was choosing an egg to cook for myself.
"You took the cracked egg," I said.
"So that's why I love you, because you give yourself the cracked egg from a box in which all the other eggs are whole, rather than leave it for someone else."
He looked at me quizzically.
"I avoided that egg yesterday," I explained, "because I'm not as selfless as you."
"No," he said, "it only means you make up stories."