For our next anniversary, we'll commit to adding that fourth kitchen we always talked about. I'll encourage you to approve the plans for the 12-stall garage, your 16-story man cave. We'll laugh when we resort to cell phones to locate each other when we're home.

Every week on special occasions, we'll exchange gifts: a butterfly house with pink bow, enough bass to fill a 15-acre lake. We'll have his and her private islands. At the end of the night, traveling back to our bedroom could be too pedestrian, so you'll stay there, and I'll stay here. We'll laugh when we resort to our cell phones to kiss each other goodnight.

One day, you'll trek me through your 32-story man-cave. You'll admit how mainstream you feel about darkness, so you'll knock down a wall, create an open-faced city. How you used to like your eggs.

I'll be impressed with your new life, jealous of new friends in corner bars you've had built, the waitress who flirts with you, who needed someplace to stay, just her and her kid. A few years later, you'll add a preschool, no time for vacations. We used to love skiing indoors, remember?

We'll sigh and remember what it was like before—rotating on our sides in the double bed with one zip code, the warmth of your hand on my thigh, a pedestal sink with no room for toothbrushes. We'd cop a feel as we untangled legs. We'd do our what if's, our maybe's, someday's, synchonized, easy over—how I used to like my eggs.

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