Arthur reserved a table for two at a small restaurant to celebrate his and June’s thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. He pressed his shirt, polished his shoes, and carried a thin blue folder.
June noticed the folder as they left the house. “What’s in that?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“That’s what you said about the leaking shed.”
“This is happier.”
At the restaurant, Arthur kept the folder beside his plate. The waiter took their order. June chose the fish; Arthur ordered steak and asked whether the kitchen could delay dessert by ten minutes. The waiter said he would try.
June narrowed her eyes. “Are you planning a speech?”
“Maybe a little one.”
“We agreed no speeches.”
“We agreed no speeches at the party. This is dinner.”
Their children had thrown a party the previous weekend. Arthur had spent it explaining to relatives that the blue folder was not a tax return. Tonight, he said, was for the two of them.
June relaxed until the waiter brought a candle with the starters. Arthur asked him to take it away. “Not yet.”
The waiter looked at June. She shrugged. Once he left, she tried to peek inside the folder. Arthur slid it under his chair.
“I’m your wife,” she said. “I know what’s in the kitchen drawer marked ‘miscellaneous.’”
“That doesn’t mean you know everything.”
“On our anniversary, that sounds less romantic than you think.”
Between courses, Arthur checked his watch twice. He had written a page about their first flat, the car that never started in winter, and the summer they learned that their youngest child had been feeding biscuits to a mouse. But each time he tried to rehearse it in his head, June told another story that was better.
When the plates were cleared, Arthur stood. The waiter, watching from near the bar, reached for a small box. June saw him and covered her face.
“Arthur. Please don’t propose again in front of strangers.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
The waiter stopped. Arthur waved him forward. The box contained the restaurant bill, not a ring. On top was a yellow slip. June picked it up. It was the restaurant’s coat-check ticket.
“What is this?”
Arthur opened the folder. Inside were receipts, handwritten notes and one old photograph. Thirty-five years earlier, on their first date, June had lost a blue scarf at this same restaurant. Arthur had returned the next day, collected it, and kept the claim ticket because he was too nervous to ask whether she wanted to see him again.
“You kept a coat ticket for thirty-five years?” she said.
“I was going to tell you I’ve finally used it.”
June smiled. “To collect what?”
Arthur glanced at the waiter. The waiter returned carrying a carefully wrapped blue scarf. Arthur had found the scarf at the back of their wardrobe and arranged the little performance with him.
June held it up. “This is lovely.”
“I also wrote a speech.”
She handed him the folder. “Keep the speech. I remember the date.”
Arthur looked puzzled. June tied the scarf around his neck.
“I remember,” she said, “because you tried to leave wearing my coat.”