February

My husband and I have a weird relationship. We haven’t lived together for nearly 10 years, and barely lived together for 5 or 6 years before that because he traveled so much. But we talk nearly every day and though no one else understands it, we’ve made it work.

We got married in February, a strange month to choose for a wedding. I hate February; I call it the longest, shortest month. The weather is frequently terrible, but on that February 22 the weather was glorious. Sixty degrees and sunny.

A year later my husband told me that one of his employees — a friend who had been the best man at our wedding — had had to fly home to North Dakota on short notice and could only get a flight out of Dulles Airport. However, his return flight was to National Airport, and my husband needed to go out to Dulles in the morning to get Ron’s car. Could I come with him and drive our car back? Of course I balked. It meant getting up way earlier than usual — in dark, cold February — to drive out to the airport and get back to DC in time for work. “I’ll buy you breakfast,” he said. Okay. (It doesn’t take much.)

That night a friend called to ask if I’d go out for coffee. Sure.

The next morning, I couldn’t find my shoes. I had two pairs of the same Enzo Angiolini shoes, one pair black, one pair brown. I can’t remember which pair was missing, but my husband said, “Just wear the other ones.” I did.

We started driving out to Dulles airport from our house in Dupont Circle, but detoured to my husband’s office in Chantilly, VA. “I need to get Ron’s keys,” he explained. I waited in the car while he ran into his office. He came back to the car, shoved an envelope into my hands and said, “I lied. We’re getting on a plane and we’re late.”

What? I opened the envelope that contained plane tickets, but I couldn’t comprehend what they said or what this meant. “What?” I said, “I need to go to work.”

“Taken care of. They know. Everyone knows. Why do you think Jennifer took you out to coffee last night?”

An anniversary gift. He’d arranged everything. Time off. Packing. (I only had to buy a few things in St. Martin/St. Maarten.) We spent a week in the Caribbean and came home to our car covered in snow. Of course. It was February.

We won’t celebrate our anniversary. I doubt it will even be acknowledged. But on a cold, icy February day, there’s always the warm memory of a surprise jaunt to a tropical island.