The car rolled steadily down the highway, the rhythm of the tires almost hypnotic. Married for decades, the couple inside had settled into the kind of quiet that comes with familiarity. He drove, hands at ten and two, while she stared out the window, her mind clearly elsewhere.
Then she broke the silence. “I want a divorce.”
The car didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow. If anything, it sped up—45 mph now.
She doubled down. “I’m done. And just so you know, your best friend? He’s better than you. In every way.”
The speedometer hit 55 mph.
She kept going, listing her terms like a negotiator: the house, the car, the savings. With each demand, the car accelerated—60, then 65 mph. The bridge ahead seemed to grow larger, the air in the car thicker.
Finally, she snapped. “Well? Don’t you want anything?”
He chuckled. “I’m good.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What could you possibly have?”
His grin was razor-sharp. “The airbag.”
Silence.
Meanwhile, at a cozy bistro, a silver-haired couple celebrated 35 years together. A fairy (yes, really) popped up and granted them one wish each.
The wife went first. “An around-the-world trip with my darling!” Tickets materialized.
The husband hesitated. “I, uh… always imagined myself with a younger woman.”
The fairy sighed. “Done.” She waved her wand—and suddenly, he needed a walker.
Timing, it seems, is everything.
