The anniversary they nearly talked themselves out of

It slipped between two folded shirts when Tom lifted the case onto the bed.

In the photograph, his hair was darker, Elena's skirt was yellow, and neither of them had noticed the stranger walking through the background carrying an enormous fish.

Their first holiday together.

“You kept this?”

Elena reached for it.

“Of course.”

They had almost canceled the trip three times before booking it.

The first conversation had taken place over dishes.

“Thirty years,” Tom said. “We should go somewhere.”

Elena dried a plate.

“We could.”

He heard hesitation. She heard an idea he hadn't really thought through.

Neither mentioned it again for a week.

Then came the prices, the practical questions, the easy escape of saying they could celebrate at home.

They were good at being sensible. They had built a life on it.

Sometimes Elena wondered whether they had become so good at arranging life that they had forgotten how to enjoy each other's company without an errand attached.

Tom wondered something similar while mowing the lawn.

Neither knew the other was wondering.

“Do you actually want to go?” she asked one evening.

“I thought you didn't.”

“I thought you were being polite.”

He looked at her.

“Elena. I don't politely volunteer to pack a suitcase.”

She laughed, and the conversation became easier.

They chose a shorter journey and a small seaside town. They compared the complete costs. Tom wanted somewhere quiet. Elena wanted to walk out for dinner without driving.

They found both in a place neither had previously considered.

Then the kettle broke.

“We can still go,” Tom said before she could speak.

“I was going to ask whether we could borrow your sister's kettle.”

On their second evening away, rain sent them beneath a restaurant awning.

Elena's shoes were wet. Tom's carefully chosen shirt had a dark patch across the shoulder.

“Very romantic,” he said.

She reached over and brushed a raindrop from his eyebrow.

Inside, they ordered something unfamiliar and asked the waiter how to pronounce it. Tom got it wrong twice. Elena got it wrong with greater confidence.

After dinner, the rain had stopped.

They walked along the waterfront slowly, without discussing shopping, appointments or whose turn it was to collect someone.

Tom took her hand.

It was such an ordinary gesture that she almost missed how long it had been since they had walked this way.

The next morning, they asked a passerby to take their photograph.

Elena stood beside him in a yellow scarf.

Behind them, a man was carrying a fishing rod.

“Close enough,” Tom said.

She leaned into his shoulder before the shutter clicked.