We had the most intense, connected, tearful sex of our entire marriage in the back seat of a Honda Odyssey at a rest stop off I-95. It wasn’t performance. It was reunion.
At 9 PM, a live band played covers of songs from the year we got married (2014 — rusty pop bangers). No one danced at first. Then a man in a moth-eaten tuxedo started a conga line using a lacrosse stick as a baton. By 10, Elena was laughing — actually laughing — at a woman doing an interpretive dance to “Shake It Off” while balancing a champagne flute on her head.
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Let me be brutally clear: