I'm 58 next month, almost 59 actually, and sometimes late at night, when Harold's snoring loud enough to shake the pictures on the wall — he's always done that, 37 years of it — I just lie there and wonder if I ever really… wanted him. I mean, we're in a small town, you get married, you have kids, that’s just what you do. But I remember Mrs. Henderson, she ran the little diner on Main Street before it closed down for good back in '98, and how I always used to get this funny feeling when she'd lean over the counter to give me my coffee, like a little jolt, almost. And I NEVER felt that with Harold, not once, not even on our wedding day. It’s too late to even think about it now, I guess, but I just… wonder.