"How many?" says my husband as he extracts the turkey carcass from the fridge.
"How many what?" I pull a thread of meat from the battered bird.
"Guys?" he says.
"Haven't we had this conversation before?" I say, chewing. "I'll never tell."
"But it's our anniversary," he says. "It was over 13 years ago. It's ancient history."
"Exactly," I say, "that's the beauty of marriage. You know precisely who you're going to bed with next and there's no need to worry about this miscellany." I drop a wing bone into a giant black pot. "And why are we talking about this? It doesn't matter. You were mine from the day you first tasted my turkey bone soup."
"Aren't you curious about my history?" he says.
"What the hell do I care?" I say. "I washed you off first."
"How many?" he asks again. "Before we were married. Come on. Tell me how many."
"No," I say, rinsing off the wishbone.
"Okay, fine," I say. "More than one and less than one hundred." I offer up the wishbone, a challenge.
"All right then," he says, grasping his end of the bone betwixt thumb and forefinger, "there was me, that's one." The tiny bone snaps and my betrothed scores an uncharacteristic win. "So who was the other guy?"