An elderly couple, Bert and Edna, are sitting on the porch swing!

The golden hour of a Sunday evening settled over the porch like a warm, hand-knit blanket. Bert and Edna, married for fifty-five years—a span of time that felt both like a single breath and several lifetimes—sat together on their weathered wooden swing. The rhythmic creak of the chains provided a steady percussion to the evening’s ambient noise: the distant trill of a meadowlark and the frantic scuffling of two squirrels in the yard engaged in a high-stakes wrestling match over a stray Cheeto.

They were sipping lukewarm tea, the kind that had sat long enough for the steam to vanish but the comfort to remain. Edna, whose eyes still held the same spark that had captivated Bert in 1960, let out a sudden, dramatic sigh. “Bert,” she said, her voice cutting through the quiet, “I think it’s time we discuss our bucket lists.”

Bert didn’t even look up from the squirrel brawl. He adjusted his spectacles, which were perpetually slipping down his nose. “Lists of buckets? Edna, I’m eighty-seven years old. My current bucket list has exactly one item on it: waking up tomorrow morning and successfully remembering where I put my trousers.”

Edna chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. “I’m being serious, you old grump. We’ve spent five decades doing things for the kids, the grandkids, and the mortgage. Before we finally shuffle off this mortal coil, we ought to do something we’ve actually wanted to do.”

Bert finally turned to her, a slow grin spreading across his face. “All right, fine. You want a dream? Skydiving. I’ve always wanted to know what it feels like to fall through a cloud.”

Edna’s eyes went wide. “Skydiving? Bert, last Tuesday you knelt down to tie your shoe and fainted for three minutes. You’d be unconscious before you even hit the propeller wash.”

Bert gave a nonchalant shrug. “Well, look at it this way: if I do pass out mid-air, just tell the pilot to aim for the neighbor’s prize-winning rose garden. I’ve spent forty years wanting to haunt that man’s topiary, and landing on it seems like a solid start.”

They both dissolved into a fit of giggles, the swing swaying dangerously with their laughter. “Fair enough,” Edna said, wiping a tear from her eye. “You skydive. But if we’re airing out our souls, I have a few confessions of my own to make.”

Bert’s eyebrows shot up. There was a particular glint in Edna’s eye, a mischievous flicker he hadn’t seen since 1965—the year she “accidentally” dropped his favorite bowling trophy out of a moving car window during a heated argument about directions. “A confession?” Bert asked, suddenly wary. “What have you done?”

“You know your favorite recliner?” Edna whispered, leaning in so close he could smell the bergamot in her tea. “The one that mysteriously leaned to the left for twenty years? The one you blamed the dog for damaging?”

Bert nodded slowly. “I remember. I felt so bad for poor Buster; I thought he’d slept on the frame and bent it. The poor thing hobbled for weeks out of pure confusion.”

Edna’s grin widened. “I did it, Bert. In 1989, you spilled grape soda on my brand-new silk curtains and tried to hide it by pinning them behind the radiator. The next morning, I jammed a metal spatula into the reclining mechanism of your chair. I wanted you to feel as off-balance as I did every time I looked at those purple stains.”

Bert let out a theatrical gasp of horror. “You’re a monster, Edna! A tactical, kitchen-utensil-wielding monster!”

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” she continued, clearly enjoying herself. “Remember how the television remote seemed ‘haunted’ for five years? No matter what button you pressed—Volume Up, Channel Down, Power—it would eventually just switch to the Hallmark Channel?”

Bert blinked, memories of countless snowy Christmas romances flooding back. “You told me it was a localized electromagnetic interference from the microwave!”

“Nope,” Edna chirped. “I taped a penny inside the battery compartment to short-circuit the signal plate just enough to confuse the processor. I wasn’t about to miss a season of slow-motion snowball fights and mistletoe miracles just because you wanted to watch the weather report.”

Bert sat in stunned silence for a moment, then leaned back and let out a long, low whistle. “Well, Edna, if we’re playing for keeps, I suppose I should tell you about my ‘Saturday fishing trips’ that lasted for a decade.”

Edna gave him a skeptical look. “Bert, we both know you haven’t touched a fish since 1974. You come home smelling like floor wax and cheap beer, not trout.”

Bert beamed with pride. “I was at the bowling alley. I wasn’t just playing; I was winning. I took home four state-level amateur awards. They’re all hidden in the basement, tucked inside a false panel behind the water heater.”

Edna looked at him, her mouth agape. “You mean to tell me the trophy I threw out the window in ’65 was a fake?”

“Of course it was!” Bert laughed. “I kept the real ones where you couldn’t get your vengeful hands on them.”

The two of them sat there, laughing until their sides ached, realizing that their marriage hadn’t just been built on love, but on a series of elaborate, hilarious retaliations. True to their word, the following month was a whirlwind. Bert actually went skydiving (attached to a very nervous instructor), Edna got a brand-new recliner, and they started going bowling together every Saturday—mostly so Edna could make sure Bert wasn’t winning any more secret trophies.

However, life—and the road—can be unpredictable. A few years later, shortly after their sixtieth anniversary, the couple passed away peacefully but unexpectedly in a car accident. They found themselves standing before the Pearly Gates, hand in hand. Because Edna had spent the last decade of their lives obsessed with paleo diets, kale smoothies, and three-mile morning walks, they were arguably the healthiest-looking souls in the intake line.

St. Peter greeted them with a warm, radiant smile and took them on a tour of their new eternal home. It was a sprawling estate with a gourmet kitchen, a massive Jacuzzi, and a custom-built bowling alley in the basement.

“This is incredible,” Bert whispered, looking at the gold-leafed fixtures. “What’s the monthly maintenance on a place like this?”

“Nothing,” St. Peter replied. “This is Heaven. It’s all free.”

Next, he took them to a championship golf course that bordered their backyard. The greens were perfectly manicured, and an angel stood ready with a bag of clubs. “The course changes every day to mirror the greatest holes on Earth,” St. Peter explained.

“And the green fees?” Edna asked, her habit of penny-pinching still intact.

“Free,” St. Peter laughed. “Everything here is a gift.”

Finally, they reached the “Great Hall of Dining,” a five-star buffet that stretched as far as the eye could see. There were platters of prime rib dripping in jus, mountains of lobster tails, Wagyu steaks, and a dessert station that featured every pastry ever conceived by man.

Bert stared at a plate of glistening, bacon-wrapped scallops. “All right, but what about the low-fat options? What about the cholesterol? Edna’s going to have a fit if I touch that butter sauce.”

St. Peter chuckled softly. “Sir, this is the afterlife. You cannot get sick, you cannot put on weight, and your heart is as indestructible as the foundations of this city. You can eat whatever your heart desires, for as long as you want.”

Bert’s face went from pale to a deep, vibrating crimson. His fists clenched at his sides, and he looked up at the sky, letting out a roar of frustration.

“Bert!” Edna cried, grabbing his arm. “What on earth is wrong with you? We’re in Heaven!”

Bert turned on his heel, pointing a trembling finger at his wife. “This is all your fault!” he shouted. “We could have been here ten years ago if it hadn’t been for your damn paleo chicken and those tasteless bran muffins!”

Edna stared at him for a second, looked at the lobster, then back at Bert. She simply shrugged, picked up a plate of bacon, and said, “Well, at least now you can have the grape soda, dear.”