She first saw him when they were in elementary school, a scrawny boy with freckles and torn pants and skinned elbows and she decided that she liked his slightly crooked tooth which she hardly ever saw because he was always scowling at airplanes in the sky or bent over a creek trying to catch a croaking frog or riding a bicycle past her popping wheelies and gum at the same time. She forgot about him in middle school because she was hanging out with her friends getting her period discovering she liked algebra and trying out for the band which was silly because at best she played the flute only marginally well and never really practiced like she should. One day in high school, she noticed this boy a more grown up boy with freckles and rough sneakers and sunburned ears and the slightest dusting of a barely-there mustache on his upper lip and she remembered that years ago she had liked his slightly crooked tooth. A few years later they married on a hot and humid blue sky day next to a lake where, standing there in their formal finery, she saw his eyes sparkle when a frog croaked nearby and she thought for a second he might just roll his pants up and go after it. On their 50th anniversary they walked hand in hand around that same lake each bearing gray-tinged hair and not-so-good knees and memory upon memory of family and grandkids and rough times that ultimately made them stronger. And when he smiled she saw that slightly crooked tooth and decided she wouldn’t change a thing.