We had exactly two days together as husband and wife.
On the second morning, I drove with him to the station.
I had barely slept. I kept watching him button his shirt, fold his things, and check his bag as if noticing every little movement could somehow make the morning last longer.
Before he boarded, he touched the yellow scarf around my neck.
Yellow had always been my favorite color.
“Next anniversary,” he promised, “I’m buying you so many yellow roses you won’t know where to put them.”
I tried to smile.
“You’d better. I married you for the flowers.”
He laughed, kissed my forehead, and then kissed me properly.
I remember the warmth of his hand against my cheek.
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