On Nov. 9 we’ll have been together 28 years. One night you’re standing around a dingy bar’s backroom with your dick hanging out and the next thing you know it’s decades later, you’re living the schmaltzy scenes from Fiddler on the Roof and having conversations like this:
R MAN: Did you give the cat the belt from my green silk robe to play with?
ME: Maybe a little.
You don’t get that kind of relationship without practice. Trust me.