People have questions to ask. By people, you mean tourists, tourists and new residents of Amity Island who don’t have a clue who you or Quint are. You’re much younger than him, but it doesn’t bother you. He treats you better than any man you had been with before him, so you married him.

You happily spend your evenings tracing the scars and faded tattoos of his past, and kiss every inch of them late into the night. You run your hands through his graying hair and smile affectionately at the beginnings of crows feet and smile lines.

When you go out, and these tourists give you looks of confusion or disgust, you easily brush it off. What really gets you going is when they ask him: “is this your daughter?”

You sure hope a father wouldn’t grope his daughter’s ass and press his lips to her’s in the most gentle embrace a man could muster up. They almost always look appalled when you flash them your wedding ring and lean more deeply into his side. You find it drop-dead hilarious and cackle while you return to your shopping cart.

Apart from those few awkward moments (more awkward for Quint than for you), you enjoy everything about Amity Island. You married a man who adores you in a town who adores you, and live in the most perfect house you could imagine, which you happen to adore.

You buy a new bikini and don’t have to wait until the weekend to try it out, you can bike everywhere you need to go, and tan on the deck of your husband’s boat in the mornings. Nothing gets better than that.