THAT MARCH
March isnt just a monthits an annual test of your sanity.
Especially when your love is as peculiar as the weather outside: one moment its spring, the next its the apocalypse, or maybe someone just splattered grey paint across the whole city.
James and Emilys love began in March, which explained everything.
Other couples met under swirling cherry blossom petals; these two collided when James accidentally splashed Emily with a puddle, and she, rather than crying, hurled a melting snowball at his windscreena snowball James was absolutely convinced had a brick buried inside.
It was love at first ricochet.
March in their town wasnt so much the season of romance as it was where love lived in wellington boots.
Fancy going for a walk? whispered James softly down the phone.
I dont own a boat, Emily replied, deadpan.
Ill carry you, he promised.
Their dates looked less like walks and more like the SAS training in marshland.
James gallantly carried Emily over rivers of thawed slush, while she held an umbrella above his head that desperately tried to escape in the direction of Brighton, carried along with their hopes for dry feet.
You know, mused James, squelching in his right boot, theres something profound about all this.
Were like those two ducks in the park.
Ducks migrated to Spain back in October, James.
Right now, were like two careless penguins who missed Antarctica.
Their odd love blossomed in small, everyday gestures.
Deep feelings in March werent a ring hidden in champagne (thered be an ice cube floating in it anyway), but the last cold & flu tablet split between them.
This is for you, James said solemnly, handing her half of the yellow powder.
Im giving it from the heart.
Whys it covered in cat hair? Emily asked.
Its a garnish.
For immunity.
Emily stared at himin a ridiculous bobble hat, red-nosed, eyes gleaming with feverish lunacyand realised: this was it.
The code of the universe had glitched, connecting two people capable of laughing when both had a temperature (which, as everyone knows, is practically terminal for a man).
The most romantic moment came at the end of the month.
The sun finally emerged, revealing everything winter had hidden beneath the snow.
The town looked like the backdrop to a film about the uprising of council workers.
They stood together on the bridge.
The wind howled at thirty miles an hour, trying to rip Jamess coat clean off.
Emily, he began, shouting above the roar of spring, I wanted to say youre like like the first snowdrop!
As pale and fighting your way through rubbish? Emily asked, adjusting her scarf, now wrapped around her head three times.
James hesitated.
No.
As resilient.
Despite this blasted March, youre still with me.
Even after I dropped your phone into a snowdrift, which turned out to be a puddle.
Emily looked at him, sneezed (in time with a passing double-decker bus), and laughed.
Alright, hero-snowdrop.
Lets head home.
I bought a kilo of lemons and found a recipe for mulled wine.
If we survive Sunday, Ill officially recognise our love as a national monument.
They strolled down the street, weaving around icebergs lining the pavement.
It was a very deep love.
Deep, right to the kneethats how much water was in their blocks hallway.
But it didnt matter.
Because in that March, what matters isnt how clean your shoes are, but whose hand you cling to as you both slide toward imminent April
Another year passed.
March arrived again.
The town transformed into the set of Waterworld, produced on a budget of three quid.
James and Emily stood before a giant puddle that had conquered their courtyard overnight.
Neighbours hugged the fence, balancing along the slick edge, while a pensioner stared hopefully at the sky, looking for rescueif not by helicopter then at least a pigeon with an olive branch.
James, Emily glanced at her fresh white trainers bought in a fit of unwarranted optimism.
Were adults, you know.
Weve got a mortgage, jobs, and an annual report.
We cant just
We can, James cut her off.
Like a magician, he produced two bright yellow wellies decorated with cheerful little ducklings from behind his back.
Bought them yesterday.
Your size.
Emily sighed.
It was that deep love, the kind where your partner knows not only your shoe size but also your readiness for surrender.
Five minutes later, they were standing slap bang in the middle of the puddle.
Water gurgled happily, the sun reflected off dirty ice, and passers-by looked at them as if theyd escaped from some wonderfully cheerful but heavily guarded institution.
You know, Emily giggled, jumping and sending a spray across the neighbour in his mink hat, this is the best way to launch spring.
Its the Yellow Duck code, James replied solemnly.
The universe tried to drown us in gloom, but we had waterproof heels.
There they stood amid the spring chaosabsurd, soaked, and perfectly in sync.
It was a peculiar love, understood only by those who know how to find the bottom where others see only mud.
James wrapped his arms around her, and in that instant the sun hit so strongly steam began rising from their coats.
Were smoking, noted Emily.
No, James smiled.
Weve finally warmed up enough.
And that March, they understood the truth: if life hands you puddles, buy the brightest wellies and learn to dance in them.
