She was getting angrier as we argued on the Church parking lot. She controlled her irritation at my unreasonable position. But, finally, she had had enough. She pointed her finger at me and spoke deliberately. “When you get to be my age…”
The words went through my head: “I’m in love.” She had no idea how much younger she was than was I.
It was years ago. We sometimes tell the story together, and she makes a point of assuring me I still look much younger than my age.
Our argument is lost to me now. I wonder if she remembers it. It probably had to do with some change in ritual.
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