The Anniversary Dress – Part 2: Midnight Blue

The dress fitted as though it had been poured.

Aurélie turned in front of the long mirror, a little breathless. The silk whispered against her skin. At forty-three, she had not looked in a mirror like this for years: not apologetic, not busy, just herself.

"Oh," said Julien, in the doorway of the fitting room.

"Is it too much?"

"It's the only thing I've ever got completely right."

They had dinner on a restaurant barge on the Seine, candlelight shivering on the black water, the lights of the bridges strung like pearls. Julien ordered the good wine. They talked about their students, their parents, the awful carpet they had once chosen together. The ghost of every year sat at the table with them, smiling.

Afterwards, they walked home along the quay. Her heels clicked on the stones. His arm was round her waist.

"Can I ask you something?" said Aurélie.

"Yes."

"When did you notice me again?"

"I never stopped," said Julien. "But I got shy. Somewhere around year twelve."

She laughed, helpless and moved. In the little hotel room, with the window open to the soft night and the river murmuring below, she turned her back to him.

"The zip," she said. "It's very small."

"I'm afraid of it."

"Be brave."

He undid it slowly, one hand warm at her shoulder, and pressed his lips to her neck. She shivered.

"May I kiss my wife?" he said.

"Yes," said Aurélie. "And if I say stop, you must wear a bow tie to school pickup for a month."

"I'll do it for a year."

He kissed her slowly, and she turned into his arms, and the midnight silk whispered to the floor. The kiss was tender and unhurried, twenty years deep, tasting of wine and candle smoke. The curtains stirred in the river breeze.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Aurélie. "Very green."

She wore the dress again on their twenty-first anniversary. He wore the bow tie.

More married couple romance: The Cruise · Couples Retreat · The Second Honeymoon