I was up till 5 am last night, well, this morning, doing a bunch of stuff. As I’m finishing up Fyl shuffles into the living room. A science fiction/astronomy/outer space nut, she was getting up early, way early, for the eclipse. I gave her a kiss and went to bed. I’m retired and figured I could sleep in past noon. I figured wrong. At 9:30 am she comes in and announces the eclipse is beginning! Not here, but somewhere out in the Pacific. She left the bedroom door open. Daylight spilled in. I could hear the Weather Channel people chattering excitably. I pulled the blanket over my head. Nodded off. At 10 am she comes in again and announces the eclipse has begun. It’s over Mexico, she said. I could hear the Weather Channel people even more excited. I pulled the blanket further up over my head and nodded off again. Woken up by the light being switched on. It was 10:30 am. You’ll miss the eclipse she said. I really didn’t care. I just turned 67, who knows how many eclipses I’ve seen. They were exciting when I was a kid. A little less exciting in middle age, now just a thing the moon and sun does that is utterly irrelevant to my life as a senior citizen.  I didn’t say that, though. Instead I sleepily got up, put on two mismatched socks, struggled with my pants, misbuttoned my shirt and went into the kitchen to make coffee. Cut up some fruit. Joined her out on the couch. Look, she said, those three hundred people in Arkansas just got married during the eclipse. There was a crowd of people on the screen, some in wedding dresses and nice suits. Isn’t that romantic? I agreed it was, though I thought that waking up early to watch the eclipse on TV with my wife was even more romantic. I stifled a sleepy yawn, took a couple sips of coffee and oohed and awwed on cue. She kissed me on the cheek. Thus do marriages last forty four years.