When I got home from work the other day the first thing I noticed was the 35-foot-long chartreuse and orange banner stretching from one end of our living room to the other. It was emblazoned with the words “WITH ALL MY LOVE, SALLY.”  My heart fell. “Aw, jeez,” I said to myself. “Did I miss another wedding anniversary?” Just then Sally walked into the room.

“Does it seem like it’s been 43 years since that afternoon?” she said, looking up at the banner.

I didn’t want to say it, but I did anyway. “What afternoon?”

Her smile immediately turned upside down. “You (insert pout here) forgot!” she snapped.

I struggled to recover. “I didn’t forget,” I said.

She eyed me. “You didn’t forget what?”

That’s when I knew I was dead. “Well. . .um . . .I didn’t  forget . . .um . . .”

She placed her hands on her hips. “Boy, some husband you are. You don’t even remember the anniversary of our first date.”

A tsunami of relief washed over my body.

“Oh, first date, huh? Well, for your information, I do remember that day and, furthermore, I remember where we went, too. We went to Frisch’s for lunch. Hah!”

She moved closer. “Do you remember what we ate?” she asked.

“You betcha,” I said, my confidence growing. “I ordered one of those really big hamburgers and you had a ham and cheese sandwich.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she took my hand in hers.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I got to thinking this morning that we need to cherish those precious moments in our marriage. I should have realized nobody can remember every little detail of a special relationship. I’ll never do it again. Promise.”

She moved closer and took my hand.

“Forgive me?” she asked.

“I forgive you,” I answered.

We sealed our agreement with a quick kiss and I started to leave the room. 

“Honey?” she said.

“Yes,” I replied.

“What did I have on my sandwich? Mustard or mayo?”

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