Apparently Peggy and I are boring.
We drive. We walk the beach. We watch birds. We come home, eat dinner, watch British television. Sometimes we get crazy and take the long way home.
Most people do not know the decadent part.
We each have our own bathroom.
His and hers. Separate. Private.
Nobody told me at 25 that this was the thing to want. Keep the sports car. Forget the yacht. I do not need a house in Tuscany.
Give me a bathroom where everything is where I left it.
We have arrived.
I do not remember dreaming about this. Success was supposed to look like more money, a bigger house, a nicer car, an impressive trip, maybe a pool.
Nobody at 25 says, someday, if I work hard enough, nobody else will use my toilet.
There is no poster for that.
Peggy has hers. I have mine. She arranges hers however she wants. I can leave the mysterious pile a man apparently needs around the sink. Nobody asks if I am done. Nobody moves anything. Nobody waits. Nobody negotiates.
Doors. Peace. Plumbing.
Magnificent.
An afternoon with nowhere we have to be. The long way home because the leaves look good. Sitting with the water. A drive with no destination.
Ten chuck-eye steaks in the refrigerator.
An extra cup of coffee on my birthday.
Luxury stopped being impressive things. It became ordinary things the way we like them.
I do not know when that happened. I did not notice it arriving.
We will be over here living like royalty.
In separate bathrooms.