We slipped out early this morning for something we haven’t done in a while: breakfast out, just the two of us. No wedding tasks, no health-kick negotiations, no pajama-based standoffs. Just us, cloudy skies, and the promise of biscuits.

Neighborhood Jam was full of early-summer Oklahoma energy. Grandparents everywhere, doing their annual June bonding before sports and vacations steal the kids away. One grandmother was showing her grandkids photos on her phone — Nova Scotia, London — and I had a flashback to the slide-carousel era of my youth. Back then, “family vacation recap” meant a darkened room, a projector clicking through three trays, and the quiet hope you wouldn’t be called on to identify which mountain range this one was. My dad asked good questions. The rest of us worked on staying upright.

A guy two tables over had brought his own flavored creamer dispenser from home. Just walked it in. I didn’t judge. The accommodations we make to get our spouses to cooperate are either slightly embarrassing or completely normal, and I’ve stopped trying to figure out which.

Our waitress was the kind of person who makes you feel like the restaurant is running better simply because she’s there. She brought coffee, water, and milk in a small pitcher before we thought to ask for any of it. When I got up for the bathroom, I told Judy I wanted to switch to decaf if she came by. On the way, I ran into her and mentioned it. I came back to a yellow (yellow = decaf; orange = regular) cup already waiting. Judy briefly elevated her to oracle status and bumped the tip accordingly, before working out the much simpler explanation.

Her sister works there too. They cover each other’s refills, so at one point both of them were at our table simultaneously. Did they look alike? Judy was certain. I said I guessed so. These are the kinds of spousal perception gaps I’ve stopped trying to close.

Then our pastor walked in, wearing a hat and carrying the same allergy-induced nasal twang I’ve been sporting for six weeks. Oklahoma solidarity.

And then the moment.

I told Judy I couldn’t imagine being married to anyone else. She asked if that meant I’d never remarry. And I, rather than recognizing what was being handed to me, answered like a man being deposed by attorneys.

“I don’t think so.”

Not no. Not never. “I don’t think so.” Technically defensible. Romantically catastrophic.

We circled back, as we do. I said something about mellowing, about fitting together, about how whatever we’ve built took a long time and probably can’t be rebuilt from scratch. Judy nodded and said, “We’ve melded.” She’s right. We have.

The official answer — the one that goes on record — is simply: no.

Yes, melded is the right word. I just wish I’d gotten there faster.