The Wrong Bag
Phil and I meet in the hallway of our home. We nod a silent acknowledgement and don our coats, hats and scarves as our daughter sits in the living room on the other side of the door. Without saying a word, we tiptoe silently out of the house, carefully pulling the front door shut behind us. Once outside, our exhaled breath is visible in the cold air. We hurry along the canal path to a restaurant for lunch.
The reason for our ninja-like behaviour is not an elaborate ploy to avoid inviting our daughter to join us for a meal, but because she is in the middle of an online exam, and we had promised not to disturb her.
Earlier, Phil had poked her head into the studio (front room) to find me huddled in my chair with a blanket over my knees. I'd peered over the top of my glasses as she handed me a book. It's a collection of short stories I wanted. I complained that we had an understanding not to buy presents so soon after Christmas. I had not bought a present. This was a clear breach of our agreement.
It was a present that arrived too late for Christmas, said Phil. So it's actually a Christmas present. Anyway, it wasn't wrapped, so it doesn't count. Damn it. She had skirted the rules on a technicality.
In the restaurant we sit at a table by the window. Directly opposite is a sushi place where men and women carrying square food delivery backpacks regularly arrive to collect their orders. This is always a good subject of conversation.
We are at the restaurant to celebrate our anniversary. The question is, which one? I am there to celebrate the anniversary of when our eyes first met across a not-so-crowded dance floor in Liverpool. Phil is there to celebrate our wedding anniversary.
We can't both be right.
Glancing out the window we see a man walk into the sushi place with a turquoise backpack with the logo of a kangaroo on it. The lid is unzipped and the insides of the bag are empty, showing the silver quilted lining. He goes to the counter. After a brief conversation the bag is dumped on the floor. No food is forthcoming. The delivery man begins to gesticulate.
Phil and I discuss which anniversary it is. They are no more than a month apart. It would be a lot easier to have just one anniversary, but if I've remembered the date of the first time we met all these years, I am reluctant to let it go now.
The delivery man exits the sushi place in a huff. He's dragging his empty backpack behind him. I can see his car is parked near by on a double yellow line.
Phil and I engage in an involved comparison of dates of graduations of various degrees and an MA (not my MA, obviously, I don't have one) that's punctuated by several long pauses as I narrow my eyes and quietly move my lips, as I do when engaged in strenuous mental arithmetic.
The delivery man is back. This time he is carrying a large orange backpack with the logo of a house containing a knife and fork inside it. He enters the sushi place and puts the empty bag on the floor. He stands, legs apart, hands on his hips.
Eventually we come to the conclusion that it is our wedding anniversary. Phil was right all along. All we have to do now is figure out how many years it has been.
In the sushi place opposite, a food order is finally being lowered into the orange backpack. It seems that you aren't allowed to take away a delivery unless you have the right bag. The delivery guy staggers out, wobbling under the weight of the contents of his orange backpack.
That's a lot of sushi, I say.
A lot, says Phil.
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Paris, the fairy tale romance beautifully drawn by Simon Gane and written by me is coming out from Image comics in May. The handsome hardcover will feature new art and extras from Simon. Please navigate the arcane pre-order process if you can (Previews code JAN220156) to avoid supply chain/paper shortage disappointment.
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