Pergola D'Oro

Your image in a photograph is how others see you. Your image in a mirror is how you see yourself.

I read that somewhere. I struggle to grasp its meaning, but I know it sounds nice. Poetic, even. Like there’s truth in it; but what that truth is trying to convey, I’m not sure. Yet. 

The way I appear in this bathroom mirror is the best I’ll ever look. The ambient light overhead casts shadows in the exact places I want them to: my neck, my cheek bones, beneath my pecs. 

I roll up the lavender sleeves of my Calvin Klein dress shirt and run warm water from the tap to wash my hands. After finishing, I keep my sleeves pushed up in silent protest to Mrs. Gaynor, my 11th grade English teacher. 

“Why wear a long-sleeved shirt if you’re just going to roll them up?” she said in front of the entire class. 

First of all, I like having the option to roll them down if it gets cold. 

Second of all, I like the way my forearms look. Forearms on a guy are like breasts on a girl. Of course they have their function; but they’re also a spectacle to the opposite sex. 

And third of all, fuck you Mrs. Gaynor. You’re an English teacher, not Ralph fucking Lauren. Why are you commenting on how I dress? 

But that was years ago. I’m over it.  

I do my pocket dance before leaving, patting each compartment in my Dockers. 

Phone in my front right. 

Wallet in my front left. 

Keys in my back right. 

Today’s pocket dance has an unusual fourth step. I reach into my back left pocket as well, pull out a tiny black box, and open it.   

It’s a shiner. I’ve never cared less about how little I had in the bank, all thanks to this two and a half carot clump of carbon. 

Erica is worth it. 

We first met downtown at Tall Paul’s. It’s the place you go when you want to be around people, but you don’t necessarily want to talk to them. There are more subwoofers than barstools, but without all the dancing.

That was where our paths crossed. 

“At a bar, no girl is ever around you by accident,” Niko once told me. 

He was right. Erica was around me, and not by accident. There was something about me that made her feel safe compared to the other guys she could have stood by. And I knew she was into me because every time I stole a glance at her, she’d be looking off to the side- like I almost caught her looking at me, but she’d retreat before our gazes could mingle.

“What do you think of Leonardo?” I asked her. Openers weren’t my strong suit, but she played ball. 

“The actor, the painter, or the ninja turtle?” she quipped back. 

And the rest is history. 

It’s been a year and a half since then, and here I am: still smitten as a kitten and sweating bullets in the bathroom of the Pergola D’Oro, ready to commit the rest of my life to her. Things have moved fast, but it feels right. 

I knew Erica was different because she was the first girl I continued thinking about even after she was gone. With others, it’s always been ‘out of sight, out of mind’; I was like a newborn who hadn’t developed object permanence yet. But with Erica, I was either with her or thinking about the next time I’d get to see her.

The bathroom door swings open and a tool with small forearms walks in and locks himself in one of the stalls. The clink of his belt buckle smacking the tile tells me it’s time to go. 

I’m barely ten feet from the bathroom when the small table for two comes back into view, and I see her waiting for me.

God, she’s beautiful. 

I stare for an extra few seconds before heading over because I want to admire her from a distance. The distance lets me see how others see her- which makes me feel even luckier. 

I don’t have a clue what to say here. There’s nothing I can say that I haven’t said before. There’s nothing I can share that’d be new information to her, and yet the stakes are higher. Words always carry more weight when you’re down on a knee. It’s almost like the weight of the words are what bring you to your knees in the first place. 

In seconds, I’m in front of her with an open ring box and a pulsating chest. I evolved from observer to active participant, driven by the purest of loves. 

“Erica,” I begin, trembling. How can I be trembling already? I’m three syllables in, for Christ’s sake. But she understands. She’s patient. That’s what I love about her. I can’t even bring myself to look at her because I’m so damned nervous. I continue with my eyes still glued to the diamond, “Someone once told me that we don’t ‘fall in love’. We ‘fall in like’; because ‘love’ isn’t a feeling- it’s a choice- one you have to make every day.

“And I’m ready to make that choice- today and all the days that follow. You’re my choice. Now, forever, and always. I love you, Erica. Will you marry me?” 

I look up for the first time since beginning my profession. Her hands are covering her mouth, and tears are welling up in her deep blue eyes. She’s crying. 

“Marcus, is this for real?” she asks, her voice is shaking too. 

I nod as my own eyes start to water. 

“You need to stop, Marcus. You can’t keep showing up like this. Please. Dominic is in the bathroom and he’ll be back any second. Go.”

“Before I call the police,” she adds.  

Like an afterthought. 

I’ll concede. For today. She seems scared of how Dominic will react, and I don’t want the memory of our engagement to be spoiled by negative emotions.

She’s clearly trying to protect me from this abusive tool she’s enmeshed with. It says a lot about her. Even on our special day- the day we’ll tell our kids and grandkids about, she’s still looking out for me; but I want to be the one who looks out for her. 

Now, forever, and always.