The Promise

A man knelt down, a letter in his trembling hands, and began to read:

Dearest Daisy,

I never told you this, but it was at a coffee shop in northern London when I first saw you. You had one of those notepads meant for to-dos and grocery lists – though I had a feeling neither held your attention. Those bright eyes watched the rush hour scene unfold: a crescendo of impatient customers and baristas completing routines in awe-inspiring synchronicity. In the middle of the chaos was you, so still, watching it all and writing, tirelessly. I prayed your eyes would fall on mine; wondered what you would think of me, what you would write. Without reason, I began to crave your attention and, with it, the curious look about you. You never did look my way.

I dreamt of you that night, coffee shop girl. That’s how I referred to you in the weeks leading up to our meeting. I'm not sure anyone ever told you this, but there is a way you go about the world – like you're a part of it all, yet entirely separate. I felt that way sometimes, watching how people’s lives were supposed to be while trying to grasp how to live my own. I didn’t even know you and somehow you communicated, wordlessly, that you and I were one and the same.

We didn’t officially meet until a month later. You were at the coffee shop, dazing off, the pen cap sitting on the edge of your lips. I was entranced by it all: the dark brown, almost black curls framing your heart-shaped face, the brilliant green, almond-shaped eyes, the light freckles scattered across your cheeks and nose like a constellation.

You know the story from here, how I caught my foot on a chair and sent myself sprawling right in front of you. You ran over, asked if I was okay, and invited me to sit with you. We spent hours that day talking, and I gathered what I needed: your name (Daisy), your profession (a journalist), and an invitation to see you again. 

We met up again a couple times before I finally asked you to be my girlfriend. But I don’t think I ever did tell you how I fell in the first place. It was the tiny moments, you see:

The day we walked the Columbia Flower Market and you bought three unique bouquets, one for each of your flatmates. 

There was the time I discovered your tattoos, the tiny rose head on your side, the strawberry on your ankle, when we were first intimate. I remember looking at you, bare and nearly asleep, and thinking that I could never be close enough to you, I could never have enough of you.

I'm sure you remember when we strolled through Hyde Park, that Sunday you met my parents, when the sun was shining so brightly and you looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. You said, "You know, your eyes are the color of tree bark dotted with moss." I wish I had said what I was thinking then. I wish I had told you that your eyes were the color of the ocean when the light touches it, a glittering green.

But what I want to tell you now is the moment I knew with absolute surety that you were it for me, and all others would pale in comparison. It was a few months into dating when we went to Daunt Books – the one on Cheapside. You told me to be patient, that bookstores and libraries demanded leisure. 

"There's enough rush out there," you told me, "Here you take your time, peruse, enjoy the quiet."

So, I watched as you studied each section, spending an hour making sure you had everything you wanted. When we were checking out, the bookstore clerk gave you a free tote, and you smiled so widely I thought perhaps you'd never received a gift before.

"Wasn't that so nice of him? That just made my day," you told me as we left the shop. I laughed, thought, it's just a tote bag, but you'd always found such happiness in the little things. 

Later we went to the river to talk and read. It ended up being more reading than talking, as I expected, because you always preferred silence. It didn't bother me.

That's when I noticed that thing you do, how you underline lines in the books you read. I asked you why you did it because I prefer my books pristine. "You're ruining the purity," I told you at the time.

"When I reread them, I like to remember what once stood out to me because it changes over time," you explained.

"But what if you lend it to someone?" I asked. "Wouldn't you want them to have their own take?"

You shook your head, "I like to think I'm leaving pieces of me in the book, and when other people read it, we're having a collective experience." After a sigh you added, "plus, I rarely lend my books to anyone." You carried on with your underlining then, which was my cue to stop the questioning.

Daisy, you see, in all of the 32 wonderful years we had together, every time I learned something new about you - like the way you would smile walking down the street or give your full attention to whomever you'd talk to - I felt like I was suffocating under the weight of my feelings for you. 

Your motions, your tones, and your gestures are all volumes of the most fascinating story I've ever read. I have adored you since I saw you in that coffee shop, and you alone have my heart until the end of my days and beyond.

His shoulders neared the ground as his lips brushed the headstone, and the man did not budge for hours. He returned to watch over her year after year until he claimed the spot beside her.