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“Morse,” Joan sighs, exasperation seeping from every pore. “It’s my thirtieth birthday. Aren’t I supposed to be the one having the crisis?”
It takes tremendous effort to hold back her laughter as her husband removes his head from his hands just long enough to shoot her a mournful look. “Yes, but I’m the ancient lech who’s robbed the cradle, Joan. I think it’s only fair—”
Joan rolls her eyes. “It’s only seven years, Morse. And I seem to remember it taking quite a bit of convincing just to get a date - on my part, not yours. You hardly had to haul me to the altar, you know.”
“Sure,” he frets, “but I’m already nearly forty. I’ve already married a woman far out of my league, how do I justify—”
“Well,” Joan says playfully, walking her fingers up his chest, “for all you know, I could have a thing for older men.” She pauses, purses her lips, and then smirks. “My track record does support that hypothesis, come to think of it.”
Morse scowls.
“What, do you disagree? I mean, just looking at the ones you know about, there’s Paul Marlock, and Ray—” she pauses to pantomime gagging, “and Jakes, and oh, that one do I went to with Jim…”
“Wait, wait,” Morse interrupts. “The ones I know about? Should I be concerned?”
Only Joan could pull off a real wink without looking ridiculous.
“This isn’t helping me agonize any less,” Morse grumbles.
Joan laughs and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. “Lucky for both of us I knew all about your tendency toward theatrics before we got married, isn’t it? Now, on to the vastly more interesting subject of where you’re taking me to celebrate after dinner with Mum and Dad…”