Compared to our classmates, Sondra and I were slowpokes, and when we finally slept together, she’d seemed so innocent. She seemed to know how to, I’ll concede, but as we’d come so close so many times, she’d probably already figured out a few things. I’d thought me being on top was the right way, but she said a book in her sorority was where she learned the others. She was more or less in charge, my challenge being to hold off until she was there.

Our first time, a friend lent Sondra the use of her apartment. She had me over for lasagna, we went to the bedroom and it just sort of happened. When I worried a little, she explained that she was already on the pill to make her periods lighter. She wasn’t having one when we did it, of course.

Girls pop their cherries riding horses, I’d read, and indeed, she’d had riding lessons. The bed-sheet proof’s just an old wives’ tale.

Being my fiancé, Sondra called it “making love,” but as that might sound overly romantic to my buddies, I just left it that we went out. They agreed that she was a great catch, her biggest fan being her brother. Mine, too, in a sense, as we’re fraternity brothers. I say “are,” as that sort of thing is for life.

We were married at First Presbyterian, me thinking that half of what her folks dropped on the shindig would have been enough to settle our loans, but Sondra’s mother wanted everything perfect.

On our wedding night, I even carried her to the bed, and we had sex every night until she had her period, and from then on, maybe every other night, what I believe to be about average for a professional couple. Some weeks maybe we do it just once or twice, but then again, some Sunday mornings, we do it more than once.

But now to things more confusing.

The time when I came home early. Sondra had forgotten to unhook the security bolt -- home invasion best thwarted by precaution, not a firearm -- and it took her the longest while to get in the door. As she’d been busy with her writing, she sent me for a take-out pizza. I usually get pepperoni with black olives. On my way to pick it up, just down the street was what looked to be her brother’s car; there not being that many real Saab 900s with Hawkeye decals, Paul, like us, being an Iowa graduate. When I came back, it was gone.

In taking the pizza box to our recycle dumpster, I noticed that our back door was unlocked and reminded Sondra that latching the front door isn’t enough when you forget the back one. She said she’d taken out the trash while I was gone and will be sure to take more care in the future.

Then that time when I returned from Pittsburgh. In our bedroom was a Sports Illustrated with Paul’s name on the address label. When asked about it, Sondra said he’d been in town and stopped by to see how we were doing. Hopes to catch me next time. We have lots to talk about, us being in the insurance field, just different companies.