Twenty-four little boxes along the windowsill, one a day. I opened five on the 2nd. Box five was a bottle of perfume, and my wife let me do my surprised face for three mornings before she said a word.
This time of year always takes me back to the advent calendar my wife made me when we'd been dating for two months. She lined twenty-four little boxes along the windowsill, each one numbered in her handwriting.
'One a day,' she said.
On the 1st I opened box one. My favourite fudge. It was so good that on the 2nd, I opened four more.
Box two was Haribo. Box three, a cinema ticket. Box four, a photo from our second date.
Box five was a little bottle of perfume. Warm, slightly smoky, nothing like anything I owned. I put some on.
Then the guilt kicked in. I put every lid back on, lined the boxes up just so and went to work smelling of day five.
She didn't say a word.
For the next three mornings, I opened boxes I'd already opened and did my best surprised face. A cinema ticket? No way. You kept that photo? On the 5th, I unwrapped the bottle and gasped.
She just smiled. 'It suited you on the 2nd as well.'
She'd spent weeks testing scents on her wrist, looking for the one that was me. She smelled it on me before breakfast and let me suffer for three days.
I think about it every December. Mostly box five. Partly the fudge.
Making one this year? Save the best for box five.