The (Series of) Indecent Proposals

Part 1

We are the group of a ridiculous mass that you dread seeing walk into your calm, quiet restaurant. Except the seat to the left of me is empty. It is a party of fifteen minus one.

“He’ll show up.” Leila whispers into my ear, from the chair my right. Something in me quiets. Across from me, my mother babbles furiously away.

“He probably lost the bloody address, even though I told him a squillion times.” I say after a few seconds.

“He’s a twenty-four year old college stoner.” Leila said. “They’re not known for being the most responsible people in the world. But don’t worry, he’ll clean up good.” At my doubtful eyes, she added – “Just remember all the reasons you started going out in the first place.”

“Sweeting!” My mother’s voice squeals from opposite me. I look to her. “We’re going to sing happy birthday.” From behind the bar a team of waitresses emerge, holding a frosted yellow cake.

“Oh, Mom, no – ” But it’s too late, and they’re off, Leila grinning enough for two beside me. As they finish, he enters the restaurant and rushes over to the table upon spotting our considerable party.

“Did I miss the start of birthday celebrations?” He asks, grinning and swiftly kissing me on the cheek as he sits down. “That’s okay, I’m here now.”

“You almost missed the end of birthday celebrations. They just brought the cake out.” I say. “Where were you?”

“I was with Jasper. We were making a delivery and I had to stick with him a little longer than usual because the guy was late.”

“Seriously?” I ask, “You were late because you were making a drug deal? Are you high right now?”

He pauses. “No.”

“This happens all the time, Dylan.”

“Baby, please don’t do this right now. I have something important to tell you.”

I look toward Leila, who smiles sweetly, and then around the rest of the table, who are now engrossed in their respective conversations. I beg for one of my mother’s famous interruptions, but alas, the loud, boisterous, carelessly festive tone of the evening has made all one-on-one chatting ironically private and intimate by virtue of the fact that nobody was, or was even capable, of listening to us. With all else enamoured by other conversational partners, Dylan, Leila and I were painfully and truly alone.

“Alright, what is it?” I say.

“It’s sort of your birthday and Christmas present as well, but it’s something I tell you rather than give you.”

“Okay.”

“Uhm. Okay.” He shuffles in his seat. “I reserved us a place, in three months, at Liberty Church.”

I look at Leila in confusion, then back at Dylan. “Why?”

He scoffs and opens his palms, as animals in the wild do when they’re trying to show you that they’re friendly. “What do you mean, ‘why?’ Remember?” He cocks his head. “That conversation we had a couple nights ago?”

“About what?”

“About – ” He lowers his voice, “ – marriage?”

“Marriage?!” I choke, “You mean …” Oh, no. “You mean you reserved Liberty for us to … get married?” At this point I am keenly aware of the eyes on Dylan and I, most piercingly my mother’s, who in my peripheral vision I can see is taking a stressed sip of her wine.

“Well, yeah …” Dylan says, looking down in embarrassment, “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“This cannot be the way you are proposing to me.”

“What? You said you wanted to get married.”

“I didn’t mean to you!” I say, regretting the words as soon as they escape me. “I mean, I didn’t mean right now. I said I want to get married before I’m thirty. It was one conversation! It was an offhand comment!” My voice grows increasingly emphatic and, in response to my own distress, ashamed. I look to Leila in desperation as silence falls over the restaurant.

“I’m sorry, I can’t …” I put my head in my hand. “I have to go. I have to think.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, something’s not right – I have to go.” My chair screeches against the wooden floor as I stand, scoop up my coat and hastily head toward the front door. I hear, in amongst the hush, some strained whispers from the crowd from which I have just departed, and soon after the clicking of Leila’s heels trotting after me.

Part 2

“It was just – just so presumptuous of him!” I say, trudging with heavy, dramatic steps through the snow as Leila and I make our way away from the warm orange glow of the restaurant.

“You have been going out for three years.” Leila says beside me.

“Exactly,” I say, “Three years should be enough time to know that an offhand comment about wanting to get married someday doesn’t mean … ugh, whatever.”

“I know a Christmas Eve party near here.” Leila says, evidently anxious to change the subject. “Take your mind off things?”

“Free booze?”

“Would it be a Christmas Eve party without?”

“Let’s go.”

The house was awash with LED lights, beckoning like a small sun from a city block away. Loud, obnoxious rock renditions of Christmas tunes by b-grade artists making a last-ditch effort at notoriety worm their way into our ears despite our objections.

Standing at the front gate, Leila asks me, “We can probably find another one.” A nearby college student pukes on the front lawn, bathing a rather smarmy-looking red garden gnome.

“No,” I say, “this is perfect.” We thread our fingers into a firm knot and walk in.

The harsh, bitter smell of pot infects even the most secluded parts of the house, but I breathe it in willingly, feeling Leila’s palm on mine, out heartbeats thumping in mutuality against each other’s fingers, louder even than the music. Sitting down on a couch, we take our coats off and sink into the cushions.

“Who do you know here?” I ask Leila.

She points behind me. “Emile.” On cue, Emile saunters up behind me, with very little grace or tact, a cruiser in his hand.

“Mind if I sit?” He asks, not waiting for an answer and tripping over his feet as he makes his way between Leila and I.

“Had a few too many of those tonight, hey Emile?” Leila says, gently taking the bottle from his hand and putting it on the coffee table in front of us. Emile shrugs.

Emile is a small-boned Korean-American first-generation immigrant, who, for the few years I’d known him since the beginning of post-grad, was known to have an alcohol tolerance lower than a petite, 80-year-old woman, and a penchant for over-estimating the amount of vodka tonics he could consume without collapsing on his front lawn at two in the morning, only to be woken up by the sound of inner-city traffic four hours later. He maintained his 4.0 GPA with the knowledge that he’d be disowned by his parents if he did not, along with only engaging in said practices on special occasions – including Christmas.

“How are we doing tonight, Emile?” I ask.

“Camille!” Emile says excitedly, “I didn’t see you there.” He had been looking at me since he sat down. “How are you? You’re looking beaut-y-ful.”

“Thanks Emile.” I say. “You’re not looking too shabby yourself.”

“How nice of you to say.” I smile. He continues, “You’re always so nice. Nice nice nice. And our names sound similar as well. Camille. Emile. EEL.”

“You’re very right, Emile.” I say. The three of us sit in silence for a few moments, as Emile ponders the wisdom of this most recent observation. Then, all of a sudden, he extends a clammy hand and strokes my cheek.

“You shouldn’t be with that idiot loser, Camille.” Emile slurs. “You should be with me.”

“Uh, okay, you’ve definitely had too much. Let’s get you to bed.” Leila and I heave him off the couch and begin to weave through the throngs of college students to his bedroom.

“We should run away together.” Emile continues. Leila and I exchange glances. “You’re so pretty.”

“In the morning you’ll regret saying all of this, so please, shut up.” I say, as we reach his bedroom door at last. I gesture to Leila to make room on his bed, and at last he lies down. The beating of the music thumps, now, against the barriers of the bedroom walls, less pervasive.

“I would never regret any of it.” Emile slurs, more quietly now. He opens his eyes and rolls his head toward me. “Marry me, Camille. Then all of this will go away.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Leila mutters. She grabs my hand. “Come on, we’ve done all we can. He’ll sober up.”

Standing frozen and wordless a few moments longer, I eventually give into Leila’s soft tugs, and we head back on outside, into the cold, pressed against each other for warmth.

Part 3

“It seems to be quite the night for you.”

“I never asked for any of this.” I responded, as well made our way through the thick, soft sledge that coated the pavement out of doors. “Having a birthday on Christmas Eve is eventful enough. I don’t even like being festive. I just want to sleep.”

“Seems like you need to get laid, actually.” Leila giggles.

“Hah.” I shake my head.

“Evidently, you’re in no short supply.”

“I want meaning. I don’t want some drunk partygoer confessing his love for me.”

“You have meaning.” Leila retorts, twice as quickly. “With Dylan. He may be a stoned college kid, but he’s no idiot, and he’s no genuine jerk, try as he might.”

“No,” I sigh, “he’s not.”

“Then why are you so – ” Leila pinches playfully at my cheek “ – grumpy? Yeah, so he messed up tonight. Next time, he’ll do better. I mean, is the sex really that bad?”

I laughed. “No, it’s not. I mean, it’s fine.”

“Well, that’s certainly a ringing endorsement.”

“There’s just something missing. There’s always something missing.”

“A little more foreplay? Some more wooing before the doing? Some harder pressing of certain buttons?”

“I mean missing from the relationship, you absolute gutter-ball.” I laugh, pushing her lightly into a nearby snow-covered brick fence. As she recovers and tightens her coat, her eyes gleam at having effectively provoked me. But quickly, her face becomes solemn, and we start walking again.

“What’s missing from your relationship?” She asks quietly, though my response, awkward and incoherent as it would have been, was interrupted by a –

“Hey! Camille! Leila!”

“Ah, wonderful.” Leila says. “Jasper and co., here to make our night extra-special.” Jasper, who was now heading across the snow from twenty yards away, flanked by two other boys unknown to me, was a built, intimidating looking individual, who had dropped out of high school in tenth grade and initiated a slew of abortive entrepreneurial projects before resorting to the age-old dropout trade of drug dealing. Chiefly, he was over-ambitious, under-intelligent and incapable of self-reflection, which, I’d always thought, would have made for a fairly blissful existence, given he had achieved essentially everything in this world he was truly capable of. He is also someone you never actively go out of your way to spend time with – however, when bumping into him in such a situation I now find myself in, the affiliation, being the best friend’s girlfriend, is unfortunately too strong to ignore and keep walking. An obligatory five-minute conversation ensues.

“Funny seeing you here.” I say as they enter into earshot.

“What are you doing out here? Isn’t it your birthday?”

“It is,” Leila cuts in, “but your boy Dylan somewhat halted birthday celebrations with a marriage proposal that left much to be desired.”

“Ah,” Jasper says, “that’s no good.” He laughed heartily. “Can’t imagine Dylan being tied down to any chick though.” Looking at my face, he quickly adds – “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Add to that,” Leila continues, “Emile decided he’d take a red-hot go at it as well.”

“You got another marriage proposal?” One of the boys behind Jasper says.

“Yep.”

“Jesus, I’ll need to take a ticket, then.” Jasper says. “You only need one more and then you have the holy trinity of bad marriage proposals. There are worse birthday gifts, right? At least you’ve got options.” He grins and playfully punches me in the arm. I look at Leila, unsure whether to take this as a backhand compliment. She smiles, pained, back at me.

“Oh, so you’re going to be my third?” I ask incredulously. “At least take me to dinner first.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of love at first sight?” Jasper says, “It’s very romantic.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“Oh, Camille, please – ” Jasper adopts a high-pitched voice as his compatriots snicker behind him “ – you have no idea how long I’ve waited for this … seeing you with Dylan all these years knowing that really it was us who should have been together. Will you marry me?”

I laugh, and turn to walk off. As Leila links her arm through mine, I retort – “Haven’t you heard? Half of Brooklyn thinks I’m promised to them already!”

Part 4

“The dog-housee beckons.” I say, looking at the caller ID from my ringing phone.

“Don’t answer.” Leila says, seriously.

I answer the call. “What is it?”

“I’m so sorry.” Dylan’s voice over the phone wobbled with a mixture of relief and apprehension. “That was so poorly done. Please give me another chance.”

“Can we talk about this later?”

“Just come to the warehouse.”

“The warehouse?” I sigh.

“Our first date. Where we had the picnic at the warehouse on 34^th overlooking the city. Do you remember?” Silence fell.

“Yes.” I whisper. “I remember.” I look to Leila, standing a few feet away, brow furrowed. “I’m not too far from there.”

“Good, great.” He breathed. “Please, please come. Please.” I hang up. Intuitively, Leila knows.

“Don’t do it.” She says. “Don’t go.”

“You were just telling me what a good guy he is like an hour ago!” To this, she seems to physically recoil.

“Sorry. I just mean … I just mean maybe you should give him some more time. To marinate in the dog-house.” She laughs forcedly.

I shake my head. “You don’t have to come with me, if you don’t want. But I’m going either way.” As I turn to walk towards the warehouse, I hear the soft crunching and churning of snow behind me, keeping the same short distance between us.

This time, the LED lights are blue, rather than white-gold, and pepper the residual lattices of the abandoned warehouse like diamonds. In the centre, Dylan kneels, holding a small crimson box. As I approach him, he opens it to reveal a modest, yet beautiful golden ring.

“I didn’t do it right.” He says. “But you deserve right.”

“No, Dylan …” Leila has halted a few feet away, and I approach him alone.

“The reason you walked out of the restaurant today,” he continues, “is exactly the reason I love you so much. You’re independent, and you don’t need me in the slightest. But I need you.” He repeats his last line, and I feel a white-hot throbbing behind my eyes, threatening my tear ducts. Every nerve-ending in my body is heightened. “Be mine,” he says. “Marry me, Camille.”

I look back at Leila, who stands, frozen as the snow she is standing on. Our eyes connect. And something – like a bone that has slipped out of place – feels broken.

“No.”

“What?”

“I can’t marry you.” Tears are rolling freely now, down my cheeks and nose, off my chin, onto the snow beneath me. “I can’t marry you.”

“But I – I did everything you wanted.” Dylan stands up, his hands falling down by his side.

“You did.” I say, reasoning with even my own self.

“Then what the hell?” I shake my head, walking backwards away from him. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything. Just tell me!”

“Leila, come on.” I turn around and reach for her hand.

“Oh, great.” Says Dylan, behind me. “Yeah, just run off, like you always do. And leave me here, waiting for you.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you then.” I say, turning around one last time. “I never asked for this. I don’t want someone to whisk me away, or be my fairy-tale. I don’t want all these boys who say that I’m their dream. I just want something good, and mutual, and caring. And Dylan, you don’t try when it matters to me. You just do things that you think girls like, like” – I gesture to the hanging lights – “doing this. But you don’t actually show up for me. And that’s why I can’t marry you.”

Part 5

The lights of the city across the harbor glint on the water. The soft waves are given a polished, lacquered look. Leila puts her cheek to my shoulder, breathing gently over my collarbone. Her hair falls out of the hood of her coat, spilling over me. She breathes and melts into me. I take in her air.

It is dark now, and silent, because the world is across the water, and the moon is obstructed by the city skyscrapers. All that is left now is the lights of those buildings, that artificial illumination that could substitute the real, at least for a time.

“Hey,” Leila says, softly, “I love you, you know.”

“I know.” I say. “I love you too.”

We sat in silence a few moments longer.

“I’m sorry that tonight was so crappy.”

“It wasn’t crappy.” I say. “I got to spend it with you.”

She looks up from my shoulder and glances into my eyes, into me. “I don’t know how, in these moments, to convey the intensity of what I feel.” She says, finally.

“I know.” She lays her head down.

“Hey, Camille?”

“Yes, Leila?”

“Do you want to marry me?”

Something slipped into place. “Yes.”