I was eating pie at a local diner when the waitress announced that regular customers Bob and Mary were celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary. The whole room cheered. Bob kissed Mary’s wrinkled cheek. The waitress turned to me, the only stranger in the booth: "Hey honey, give the lovebirds a toast!" I froze. A public address. Honor demanded eloquence. I stood up, bowed from the waist, and spoke with profound samurai gravity: "Forty winters of shared rations. The lady has been the shield that defends the fortress from within. The gentleman has been the spear that cuts through the wilderness. Neither has yielded the field. This is not mere marriage. This is an unbroken military alliance of two noble souls." The diner went dead silent. I panicked. I assumed I had ruined the party with medieval metaphors. Then Mary pulled a napkin to her face and began to weep. Bob stood up, his eyes shining, grabbed my hand, and yelled: "GODDAMN RIGHT! SHE'S MY SHIELD!" The entire diner exploded into roaring applause. Truckers were wiping tears with paper napkins. The cook rang the order bell six times. Bob bought my pie. I bought Bob’s coffee. Forty years of battle, won together.