← NotTheGlobe
He woke up with a strange feeling. Something was different.
He looked at his wife. She looked at him.
"Happy anniversary," he said.
Silence.
She stared at him as if he had just performed open-heart surgery with a butter knife.
"You remembered?"
"Of course I remembered."
She narrowed her eyes. "How?"
He hesitated. "I have a calendar."
Her expression changed. Not to anger. Something much worse. Disappointment.
"A calendar?"
"Well, technically, my phone has a calendar."
She sat up. "You needed your phone to remember?"
"The phone reminded me. But I remembered."
She stared at him.
"Still counts."
It did not.
For the rest of the day, he enjoyed the rare sensation of having accomplished something women had been doing naturally for generations. By evening, he had bought flowers, made a reservation, and even remembered the year they got married.
His wife was impressed. "Honestly," she said, "I never thought you'd remember."
He nodded proudly. "Neither did I."
She smiled and reached into her bag. "Which is why I got you a card. Just in case."
He looked at it.
It was already signed.
From both of them.