“It's been a long time,” Phil warns us.
        “1977?”
        “The year before I was born,” Sheyene interjects.
        I give her a mock grimace. Your dad's not getting old, Sheyene recently explained to my youngest son, Daniel. He's already old.
        Phil glances at both of us and tries not to smile. “Might have been '77,” he says. “I can't remember anymore.”
        “Neither can I,” I admit and take a swig of beer.
        Why do you want to marry an old fart like me? I asked Sheyene on our way to the small civil ceremony in Olathe, Kansas, three days ago.
        I've always preferred older men, she replied. Young men are stupid and scared. They never say anything interesting. Before you, I always had to teach the men in my life everything. How to talk, how to kiss, you name it. Marriage shouldn't have to be that much work.
        Work? How much work is it going to be to be interesting for the rest of my life? How much work is it going to be to forge a new life at my age and provide for everyone I still love from my old one? How much work is it going to be for Sheyene to watch the man she has fallen in love with crumble with age while she is still in her prime? How much work will it be to prepare for her own second life?
        “I can't believe neither of you have ever written about this,” Sheyene says.
        “Most of the reasons to write about something like this are not good reasons,” I explain.
        I know Phil agrees with me, but the look on his face asks: Do you have a good reason now?
        Before Phil can speak this thought, the front door opens and Ann breezes in. She's dressed in the casual style of a professional woman living in Hawai`i: sleeveless white blouse, loose-fitting black slacks, sandals.
        “Lovely to meet you,” Ann says to Sheyene.
        We're both relieved. In some respects, Ann and Phil's history resembles Sheyene's and mine. But not every woman with reason to empathize has chosen to do so. Ann is around my age, as slim as Sheyene, and looks even healthier than Phil.
        “Shall we save the story until after dinner?” Phil suggests.

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