It was an awful night for movies. The Muse and I were watching Anaconda, the theory being that even a terrible movie was better if it starred a giant snake. This theory did not extend to dinosaurs, however, as Jurassic Park III had been even worse than I'd remembered it being when I'd originally watched it. We sat on the sofa together, passing a bottle of strawberry soda between us.

"I fear sometimes that I've wasted my life," I said.

"Watching Owen Wilson being eaten by a snake makes you have to assess your life?" she asked. "That's just wrong in all sorts of ways."

"Seriously, Muse. What have I got now that I'm thirty-six that I didn't have when I was sixteen, other than student loan debt and gray hairs in my beard?"

She pinched me hard on the thigh, and I flinched and hissed. "If you can't figure that one out for yourself, dummy," she said, "then you deserve more than a pinch."

"Okay, okay! Jesus, Muse. Can't you ever teach me a lesson that doesn't involved a blood blister?"

"Never," she said, and took the soda bottle from me. "You only learn when I hold your hand to the fire."

I rubbed my thigh where she'd pinched me. "And I'm supposed to thank you for that?"

"You love me," she said. "Now shut up and watch the movie. I want to see me some more giant snake action."