Diagonally across the kitchen in the dog-feeding station, John put the two upscale dog dishes down on the cracked linoleum floor next to the water bowl. Horatio and Scruffy Dog sat. They waited until John clapped his hands, then both dogs dug in.

The cats were already chowing down, since cats basically call the shots. John had accidentally done a little bit of clicker training with them while he was working with Horatio, but if we were going to take it up a notch, my vote would be to try to get the cats to use the toilet. Cleaning litterboxes for five cats was almost as much work as being a preschool teacher. And sometimes not all that different.

“If we make reservations today,” John was saying, “we’ve still got time to plan a quick Valentine’s Day elopement.” John’s Heath Bar eyes, circles of toffee ringed in dark chocolate, held my ordinary hazel eyes. I felt that same little jolt I always did. Well, almost always.

“How about Tulum, Mexico?” John continued. “No stress, no pressure, entirely laid back. If we’re feeling adventurous, we could get married on horseback.”

John ran the accounting department at a digital game company called Necrogamiac. We’d recently sold my tiny ranchburger, rented out John’s Boston condo through a short-term executive rental company, and bought and begun to renovate the 1890 Victorian I’d grown up in. John’s boss had agreed to let him work remote most days, so he wouldn’t have to deal with the ridiculous commute into Boston.

“Or even on his and her turquoise beach cruiser bicycles,” John said.

There should be a rule that people who work remotely shouldn’t start conversations like this on work mornings with people who don’t. That little love jolt I’d felt had been completely replaced by a hot streak of pressure shooting upward from the pit of my stomach, like mercury in an old thermometer. Maybe people shouldn’t start conversations like this at all.

“Turquoise?” I said. “Matching?”

John shrugged. “Unless you’d prefer separate colors. Or in the interests of simplicity, getting married barefoot on the beach could work.”

“You hate to go barefoot.” I gave the ancient kitchen clock a quick glance. “The soles of those Midwestern feet of yours are landlubber soft. Unlike mine, which were scorched from Memorial Day until Labor Day by the hot sand of the Marshbury beaches throughout my formative years.”

John gave me his you’re missing the point look.

I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “You know, Gandhi walked barefoot most of the time, which produced an impressive set of calluses on his feet. He also ate very little, which made him frail. And because of his diet, he suffered from bad breath. This made him—wait for it—a super calloused fragile mystic hexed by halitosis.”