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Anniversary Special 1

Five years. No time off for good behaviour.

Us, Year Five

It began above a dry cleaner’s on Fern Street, in a flat that smelled of hot steam by four and had a bathroom where you could touch both walls at once. I miss it, which says something troubling about me.

Rohan & Priya

On the clock since

bus journeys, roughly

Five years. One of them touch and go. We do not need to discuss which.

State of the union, briefly

Current position, honestly reported.

We have a flat that does not smell of steam, a bus route we deliberately take the long way round, and a dog we have never owned and have already named Biscuit, discussed the walking arrangements for, and quietly argued about.

I can also now make your mother’s dal correctly. This took two years, roughly forty attempts you ate with a straight face, and one clandestine phone call to her that I have never mentioned until this exact sentence. Sorry. It was necessary.

Nobody puts any of that in a speech. But five years in, that is genuinely what it is: a handful of small skills, some strong opinions about bus routes, and an imaginary dog with a name.

The five stories I tell at every dinner party

  1. October 2021
    The flat above the dry cleaner’s

    The flat above the dry cleaner’s

    Three flights up, one window that opened, and steam coming through the floor by four every afternoon. You said it smelled like a laundrette and that you liked it.

  2. That first winter
    The 63, the long way

    The 63, the long way

    We worked out it took eleven minutes longer past the reservoir and started taking it on purpose. You have fallen asleep by the third stop every time since.

  3. February 2023
    Goa, and the food poisoning

    Goa, and the food poisoning

    I spent two days unable to sit up and you read an entire book aloud, doing the voices, badly. We have never finished the last chapter and I do not want to.

  4. The bad week
    The drive to the hospital

    The drive to the hospital

    You left at eleven at night and drove until four in the morning, and mentioned the not sleeping to nobody, including me, until three weeks afterwards.

  5. Last spring
    The dal, finally

    The dal, finally

    Forty attempts, one secret phone call to your mother, and then the evening it came out right and you made me write the quantities on the back of an envelope.

  6. Anand’s wedding
    The last two on the floor

    The last two on the floor

    The band had visibly finished and we were still going. Your cousin filmed it and shows it to people who have not asked.

One flat. One dry cleaner’s.

Steam through the floorboards by four.

One window that opened, sort of.

And we stayed in on Fridays anyway,

by choice, like maniacs.

The archive. Largely unflattering.

None of these were taken with an audience in mind, which is exactly why they are here.

Five years, one sentence each. Efficient.

Keep tapping. It grows a year at a time. Year four is where it gets uncomfortable, so brace yourself.

The playlist, annotated without your permission.

Six tracks, each with a reason attached that you have never asked for.

The one that survived everything

The one you sing the second verse of incorrectly

You are asleep by the third stop, every single time, and have denied it under oath on multiple occasions. This is the track that does it.

Terms and conditions, year six

Seven promises. Small enough that I might actually manage them.

  1. 01To take the long way when you have gone quiet, and not ask until you start.
  2. 02To say the true thing in the kitchen rather than waiting six weeks for you to say it first.
  3. 03To keep making the dal, including on the nights I do not feel like cooking.
  4. 04To drive through the night if it is ever my turn, and to tell you afterwards that I did not sleep.
  5. 05To be pleased about your work out loud, in front of other people, whether or not it has gone well yet.
  6. 06To stop being polite the moment I notice I am being polite.
  7. 07And to get the dog. Actually. This year. His name is already Biscuit.

A bouquet. No water required, no dying on the windowsill.

Six stems. Each carries a note. None of them will be brown by Thursday, which is an improvement on my usual effort.

0 of 6 picked

Right. The August thing.

August. We are doing this bit. Sorry.

For six weeks last August we were unbearably polite. No shouting, no door slamming, nothing an outside observer would have flagged. We asked after each other’s days, answered accurately, and said nothing true for a month and a half. Championship-level avoidance from both of us.

I was waiting for you to raise it. You, I am fairly sure, were waiting for me. It ended because you got back from your sister’s and said one sentence in the kitchen with the kettle going, and I still think that was braver than anything I managed that year.

I am including it because a page about four good years would be a nicer page and a worse one. It was five, one of them was rough, and I would rather hand you the accurate version than the marketing one.

Emergency supplies, sealed

Break glass as required. No expiry date, no receipt needed.

Skip the drafting stage. Say the messy version out loud. Anything is better than another six-week politeness competition, which I would lose.

Long way home. Dal will be on. I will ask nothing until you start, and then I will ask far too much, as usual.

So do I, which is embarrassing for both of us. It was tiny, it smelled of strangers’ laundry, and it remains the best year on record.

Still here. Kitchen. Being quietly dramatic with a tea towel. Come and find me whenever you are ready.

Tell me at the time. Not three weeks later, in passing, like a weather report. I can drive. I have a licence and everything.

Anand’s wedding. Band finished. Everyone sat down. Us, still going, filmed by your cousin and shown to unwilling strangers ever since.

Saturday. Already booked. Do not make other plans.

Where
Fern Street, the corner tableYes, that one. It is still there and they still do the thing with the bread.
When
Saturday, eight o’clockBooked six weeks ago, under your name, because you are better on the phone.
Getting there
The 63, the long wayPast the reservoir. You will be asleep by the third stop, as ever.
Wear
The green shirtThe one you insist is too much. It is not too much.
Getting back
Last one is 11:40We will miss it and get the next one, which is the plan and always has been.

Five Octobers.

One steam-scented flat,

one bus route taken the long way on purpose,

two years of bad dal,

one August we are not doing again —

and a table booked for eight.

Right, last thing, I promise

I have registered a star. This is either romantic or unhinged.

A real one. Catalogued. With coordinates. I checked them twice, which tells you something.

The Double Double

Lyra, the lyre

Designation
Epsilon Lyrae
Constellation
Lyra, the lyre
Right ascension
18h 44m 20s
Declination
+39° 40′ 12″
Magnitude
4.7
Distance
162 light years
Type
Two pairs, orbiting each other
Dedicated to
Aarav & Ishita

Two stars to the naked eye. Two pairs through a telescope. Each pair orbits its own partner, and both pairs orbit each other, on a circuit taking hundreds of thousands of years. Nothing about it is in a hurry and none of it has ever come apart.

Two pairs, each orbiting its own partner, and both pairs orbiting each other on a circuit that takes hundreds of thousands of years. Nothing about it is in a hurry and none of it has ever come apart.

Northern sky. Look up on a clear night and it is there.

Right. Sincerely, and then we can eat.

Five years ago you carried a box up three flights to a flat above a dry cleaner’s, put it down, opened the one window that worked, announced it smelled like a laundrette, and said you liked it. That sentence has stayed with me because it is the entire operating system: notice the problem, describe it accurately, decide to like it regardless.

You read a whole book aloud to me in Goa while I was too ill to sit upright, doing the voices, badly, for two consecutive days. You drove through the night when your father was in hospital and never once mentioned the not sleeping. Those are the two stories I produce when anybody asks what you are like. Neither is romantic. Both are correct.

So: I can make the dal, I have memorised the bus preferences, and last August I discovered that being polite and being all right are two completely different things. I would like to carry on. Same flat, same bus, same entirely fictional dog.

— yours, and Biscuit’s

Happy anniversary, you.

Saturday, eight, corner table, green shirt. I will arrive twenty minutes early and claim I have just got there.

made while you thought I was doing my expenses