In the pub, a fateful eve, Midst laughter and spirits high, A stumbling hand did misbelieve, And sent a drink awry. Upon her dress, the liquid spilt, Sparkling tales of chance anew, And so she stayed, without a wilt, To soak in friendships' brew. We met by tilt of destiny's grace, Our stories weaving fine, For forty-six years we embrace, The pattern of design. Her smile, beneath the dim-lit glow, Held secrets yet unspun, In spilled drink’s flow, our lives sow, A journey just begun.