For their thirty-fifth anniversary, Arthur promised his wife, June, a quiet dinner at the nicest restaurant in town.
June agreed, but only after making him write down the date, the time, the restaurant, and the fact that “smart casual” did not mean wearing his best gardening shoes.
Arthur phoned the restaurant himself.
“Name for the reservation?” asked the receptionist.
Arthur looked across the room at June, who was correcting the way he had loaded the dishwasher.
“Put it under Mr. Right,” he said.
The receptionist paused. “Mr. Wright, spelled W-R-I-G-H-T?”
“No. Right, as in correct. My wife says I never am, so I’d like to experience it once before dessert.”
On Friday evening, Arthur wore a jacket, polished shoes, and the expression of a man who had remembered everything. June checked the booking message three times.
At the restaurant, the hostess looked at her screen.
“Good evening. Name?”
Arthur straightened. “Mr. Right.”
Every husband within hearing distance turned around.
The hostess called more loudly, “Table for Mr. Right?”
Three men stood up.
The first man’s wife pulled him back by his sleeve. “Sit down, Philip. You ordered curtains without measuring.”
The second took one step forward before his wife reminded him that he had driven to the airport last month with the passports still on the kitchen table.
The third remained standing until his wife said, “You may be right about football. You are not right about this reservation.”
Arthur smiled proudly at June.
“See? Tonight, I’m officially right.”
The hostess checked the list again. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t have a Mr. Right.”
Arthur’s smile faded.
“I phoned on Tuesday.”
“Could it be under Arthur?”
“No.”
“June?”
“No.”
“Perhaps Wright with a W?”
“I specifically rejected the W.”
A queue formed behind them. June folded her arms. Arthur produced the booking message, but the confirmation showed only the time and number of guests.
The manager arrived and asked Arthur to repeat the call.
Arthur explained every word, including the dishwasher conversation, the spelling discussion, and his desire to be correct before dessert.
The manager searched the computer.
“I have a booking at seven-thirty for ‘Man Who Thinks He Is Right.’”
June looked at Arthur.
Arthur looked at the floor.
“That may be us,” he admitted.
The hostess led them to a table by the window. Arthur sat down carefully, pleased that the evening had survived.
A waiter handed them menus.
June asked, “Did you request the anniversary package?”
“Of course.”
“Flowers?”
“Yes.”
“Cake?”
“Yes.”
“Champagne?”
Arthur hesitated.
June narrowed her eyes.
Before he could answer, the waiter returned carrying flowers, a cake, and a silver bucket containing sparkling water.
Arthur whispered, “I thought champagne was included.”
June read the card attached to the flowers. It said, CONGRATULATIONS TO MR. RIGHT.
She smiled. “At least they got the name correct.”
During dinner, Arthur avoided all decisions. When asked about wine, he looked at June. When offered bread, he looked at June. When the waiter asked how he wanted his steak, Arthur said, “However my wife believes I want it.”
By dessert, June was laughing.
“You know,” she said, “you have been very sensible tonight.”
Arthur relaxed. “So I was right to book under Mr. Right?”
“Almost.”
“Almost?”
June showed him the receipt. At the top, the manager had corrected the booking name by hand.
It now read: TABLE FOR MRS. RIGHT AND GUEST.
Arthur studied it for a long moment.
Then the waiter asked whether everything was correct.
Arthur looked at June, looked at the receipt, and finally learned from thirty-five years of marriage.
He said, “Ask Mrs. Right.”