For better, for worse
For richer, for poorer
In sickness and in health
‘Til death do us part
She’d been thinking about those vows a lot lately. Lord knows they’d laughed, cried, slogged, and danced through the first six, and now here they were – toiling away on the seventh. It was a standard line of theirs at cocktail parties that they hoped to live long enough for a platinum anniversary.
Turns out we won’t even make golden.
You can read the rest at Flash Fiction Magazine
Stranger in a Strange Land 