They boarded the Florida-bound jet still wearing the glow of the reception—two seventy-something newlyweds with matching sun-hats and a carry-on full of sunscreen and optimism. Palm trees materialized outside the terminal like applause lines written by the state tourism board; the Gulf greeted them with a sunset so pink it felt staged. For seven days they strolled sugar-white beaches, shared key-lime pie, and slow-danced to a steel-drum band that may have been playing “Hotel California.” It was, by every account, the honeymoon they’d waited a lifetime to take.
Back home, the groom’s best friend—equally silver-haired and nosey—invited him for coffee under the guise of “I want every detail.” What he really wanted was the bedroom scorecard, because, well, boys will be boys even when AARP mails the membership card. The friend leaned in, eyebrows wagging: “So… how often did you guys, you know, do it?”
The new husband set his cup down with the timing of a man who’s been waiting decades to deliver a punchline. “Oh, we made love almost every night,” he said, deadpan. The friend’s eyes widened faster than a Florida thundercloud. “Monday we almost did it, Tuesday we almost did it, Wednesday we almost did it…” By Saturday the joke had rounded the bases and slid home, the friend howling so hard the barista thought 911 might be needed.
In that moment the honeymoon became more than a slideshow of sunsets; it turned into a story that would outlive them both—a reminder that romance doesn’t expire, but it does develop a sense of humor. Every anniversary they’ll toast “almost,” laugh until someone needs the Heimlich, and agree that near-misses count when you’re still holding hands at seventy.
