Last night the brother asked if it felt different, being married. And the answer is, so far, it mostly hasn’t. Probably this is because my wife and I are living now exactly as we did before we married. We still have our own furniture, our own apartments, our own armies of mechanized henchmen. (Mine are solar-powered but have a tendency to nap; hers use environment-despoiling coal, but devour whole cities in an afternoon. We still don't know which we're keeping.) Little has changed.
This morning, though, for the first time, it DID feel different. As has happened often in the last few years, the wife and I slept last night in separate beds. Previously this would have been unremarkable. We slept apart at least one night every week before we got married—when I was playing poker, when she was on call, or when one of us had assigned a top-secret drop mission into the heart of occupied Malta. I preferred not to sleep alone, of course, but I was used to it; and never had it bothered me.
This morning, though, for the first time, it felt somehow...wrong. Incorrect, I mean. It was like driving on the wrong side of the road, or wearing tennis shoes with a suit. Or being arrested for DUI when you’ve single-handedly redefined the conventions of pop songcraft. I’m married, and married people sleep together. It’s a rule (isn’t it?). And I’m in violation. Not a big thing, but the first glimmering of the changes that are afoot.
My belly is also covered in yellow scales, and I’m suddenly able to see on the infra-red spectrum. But that's normal--right?