They had been married forty-three years, had raised three children, survived two recessions, and could finish each other’s sentences without looking up from their crossword. Yet none of that prepared the wife for the trumpet blast that ripped through the quiet dark.
“Seven points!” her husband shouted, as proud as if he’d kicked a field goal at the Super Bowl.
She blinked. “To who?”
“Fart football,” he declared. “I just scored a touchdown.”
Laughter bubbled between them like champagne. She joined the ridiculous match, each imaginary kickoff accompanied by giggles and a running commentary worthy of a stadium announcer. Scoreboard: 7-7. Then 14-14. The bedroom shook with silly victory dances.
But competition has its price. On what he intended to be a game-winning drive, the old quarterback pushed too hard. The sound that followed was not a trumpet—it was a whistle, a surrender flag, the unmistakable signal that the match had slipped into something messier.
For a heartbeat the room went still. Then his voice, warm and unembarrassed: “Halftime whistle—switch sides!”
She howled with laughter, pulled him closer, and wiped away tears that had nothing to do with shame. Because that, they knew, is what love looks like after four decades: the freedom to be ridiculous, to fail spectacularly, and to discover that the scoreboard doesn’t matter as long as you’re both still in the game, laughing under the same blanket, ready for the next ridiculous kickoff.
