Proposal

 “Will you marry me?”

The words ring with echoes of emotion; anticipation, fear, hope. His eyes are wide open, his brow furrowed, his pearly teeth caught on his lower lip. His too-large suit has flopped open, letting his tie snake to freedom over his arm. The whole world is silent, still. Time has stopped, and I am frozen with it. My heart is fluttering in tandem with the butterflies in my stomach.

Will you marry me?

Will I? Should I? The lights of the restaurant are casting such strange shadows, as if the photons are as unsure how to act as I am. I tear my gaze away from him, looking around the room as if it might yield an answer to his question.

The patrons are statues posed as fancy diners, suited and dressed in their best clothes. At the table closest by, a woman peeks at us as her partner subtly points and smiles at the man kneeling opposite me. Rings shine on their interlaced fingers, the happiness of their expressions tinged with nostalgia. Through his proposal, they relive their engagement.

I turn back to him, tracing the lines and curves of his face. He has such delicate eyebrows, I notice. I have looked at him so often, yet I see new things every time. His brows are meeting in the middle, his concern palpable. He is worried that I will reject him. I’m not yet sure that I won’t.

Why wouldn’t I marry him? He’s young, but so am I, really. I have lived far longer than I have aged.

His eyes are so bright, so vulnerable. They shine with the potential for tears, rain that will fall regardless of my answer. I must choose whether they will be joyful or ashamed. Because it would shame him, to be rejected here. But to say yes…

I stand, no longer able to bear his silent pleading. I need movement, I need air. I walk away from him, my heels making no sound on the tiled floor. One door is open, and I don’t touch the other. I spill out on the street with the light from the windows.

It’s dark outside, dark and wet. The rain is a speckled wall, suspended in the air like it had been in the clouds. My eyes draw patterns in the raindrops as I collect my swirling thoughts.

Will you marry me?

Simple words, to cause such turmoil. The storm outside is still, but the one within rages. I want to laugh, I want to cry, I want to unfreeze the world and yell at him. I want to run, and I want to stay forever.

Why can’t I decide? I wonder.

I turn around, looking in at the restaurant. It’s a lovely venue, painted in salubrious reds and furnished with tasteful whites and browns. I can see him from here, staring at my empty chair, kneeling, hands extended with the proffered box. I haven’t even looked at the ring yet.

I pass the maître d’, standing at his post by the door, leaning against his lectern and observing the room. I follow his gaze and see that he is looking at the man who would be my husband. His wry smile tells a tale. He knew we were coming, which meant that this had all been planned out.

That’s not like him, I thought.

In the five years we’d been dating, I’d never known him to plan things out. Spontaneity was his way of life. He would spring trips and days out and date nights on me out of the blue, delighting in the enjoyment of the present. Still, he’d never once surprised me, though not for lack of trying. But this, the one thing he had planned, had surprised me. More than that, it had startled me.

I circle around the room, surveying the scene with meticulous detail. In the far west corner, a band plays golden oldies in their own sound. The singer bends to his left, eyes closed, lost in the music as his fingers prepare to dance across the piano keys. One of the black keys hangs lower than the others, and will play a bum note if he’s not careful. The cellist smiles at him, bow hand poised to pick as the other holds her instrument up. She’s missing the tip of her pinky finger on her left hand. The drummer’s energy is so frenetic that I could swear he’s moving, even with time frozen in place. He’s wearing shorts behind his drumkit, hidden from public view. A saxophonist completes the quartet, sweat beading his bald forehead as he leans into his tune. His glasses are scratched.

The table closest to them hosts an older couple, a large man posed to nod along with the music, and a woman who looks a little unnerved by the noise. He’s got a birthmark on the nape of his neck, she’s got a small scar on one knuckle. Next to them are two men, holding hands and singing along to whatever was playing, the elder of the two giving his husband a sly look.

I move through the tables, noting people and details, the stains on a man’s tie that are clearly bothering his business partner, a woman resting her hand on another woman’s knee in the corner, a waiter somehow balancing twenty glasses on the board in his hand. I note the light fixtures, chandeliers on the ceiling and faux-gaslights on the walls. I’m stalling, because I don’t want to think about his question.

Will you marry me?

I stop at our table. I’ve canvassed the whole room, and there’s nowhere else to go. The kitchen doors are closed, and the restrooms’ too. The only other place is back out the front, into the motionless downpour. I wonder, briefly, if I should run. Run out the front door, through the rain, far away.

He’d get over it, I think, staring down at his handsome face. But deep down, I know he wouldn’t. I kneel down to his level, reaching out to touch his cheek. My palm is tickled by the bristles of his fresh-shaved beard. I look him in the eye, and I ask a question of my own.

“Do I love you?”

Four words, the same as his question. Yet I am glad that he doesn’t hear me. At any rate, it’s not him I’m asking. We’ve been together five years. If we went by my birth certificate, that would be more than a fifth of my life. But that particular document is deceiving.

I have lived lifetimes in moments like these, trapped by indecision or desire. I have learned so much, seen so much, that I feel more kinship with the centenarians than the tweens. I look at his young, fresh, face, and I feel old.

But there is more to it than that. Because I’m with him, here, now, for a reason. He’s wonderful. We met on a sunny day in autumn, the last one of that year. I was at university, learning as much as I possibly could. I was so hungry for knowledge then. I wanted to understand myself, what I am, how I could do the things I can. But instead of answers, I found him.

He was sitting on a park bench, feeding pigeons. Or at least, he had been. When I saw him, he was leaning back, drinking in the sunlight, surrounded by strutting street-birds. I was struck by how peaceful he was, in that flutter of feathers, how still. Time was moving, but he let it pass without a care. I think that was what drew me to him.

I sat next to him, and he offered me a sip of water. It sort of just… went on from there.

He was there on that bench every weekend, sitting, feeding the birds. I’d find myself pausing less, letting time slip by so that I could be with him again. I liked spending time with him, letting the day pass away just sitting. It was a break from the endless consumption of knowledge, the never-ceasing search for answers.

He’d asked me out after a month. I had accepted without thinking about it, then spent nearly a year in suspended time deciding what to wear. I’d never been so nervous in my life. I’d wondered what was wrong with me, why I was acting so juvenile.

Was that love? I wonder, studying his features.

I remember the first time we’d had sex. It was after finals, almost three months into our relationship. I was euphoric, having passed my exams with ease, and when I saw him, I leapt into his arms and kissed him. We’d kissed before, of course, but that time had been different. It was… hungrier. I kissed him like I was trying to devour him, like there was something inside him that I needed to live.

He pulled away from me to ask me a single question.

“Are you sure?”

I’d answered him with my lips. But after, as we lay in each other’s arms, I’d realised that it hadn’t been all that special. I’d felt more when passing the tests than I had pulling him inside me. It had been fun, amazing even, but it hadn’t been what I expected. I’d heard what other people said about sex, and it had sounded… transcendent. This? This was just fine.

We’d done it again, after that night. So many times now that I’d lost count, but no matter what, it was never more than nice.

My thumb runs over his lips, grazing the soft skin of the corner of his mouth. He is handsome, I won’t deny, but that isn’t enough. What else is there to him?

He’s kind, I think, remembering the birds, remembering how he always asked me how my day had been, how he shared his water with me before he’d even known me, how he was always there for his friends.

He’s considerate.

That first night, I had felt his desire, felt the animal trembling in the man. He could have taken what he wanted, but he asked first.

So he’s not a rapist, my cynicism snarks, what a catch!

But it was more than that. He held open doors, he listened without interrupting, he offered advice when it was wanted. He gave of himself without expectation of thanks.

He’s vulnerable, he’s interesting, he’s at peace with himself and the world.

He loves me, I know.

So why can’t I answer him?

It’s me, I realise.

I’ve never been vulnerable, I’ve never needed to be. If someone hurts me, if I’m overwhelmed by emotion, I can just stop everything. I can take my time, feel my feelings, never revealing more of myself than I have to.

“Do you even know me?” I ask him, but I don’t let him hear me.

Even now, even here, after years of knowing him, decades from my perspective, I haven’t shown him who I am. I flee into my bubble, and I study the picture the world becomes. Do I even know who I am?

I force myself to look at the ring, at last. It’s beautiful, a diamond sparkling in a band of rose gold. I smile and glance at him, dumb in the face of his thoughtfulness. I had told him I preferred the pinkish metal to the yellow only once, years ago, and he’d remembered. Looking back at the band, I find myself wondering what it would look like on my finger.

My face is suddenly wet. I wipe away the tears with my sleeve, sniffing hard to stop my nose from running. I’m crying, because I have realised what my answer has to be. I don’t deserve him, don’t deserve this man with his little dimples and his ridiculous suit and his thoughtfulness.

He is a man of moments, of small smiles and pointed looks, a man who brings flowers home on a rainy day and packs a picnic when the sun shines. I’m someone who can never live in the moment, can never give him my time, who jealously snatches at every passing second.

I can’t even give him this moment.

I sit, composing myself. Better if I am cold, better if I am heartless. I don’t want him to imagine that this could be his fault, that what was about to be said and done fell on his shoulders. I fan my face, wishing I could take a drink of wine to cool myself. I make sure my eyes are dry, my mascara as perfect as it had been when time was stopped.

I look down at him, and let the clock tick again. Everything jumps, and he kneels once more.

“Will you marry me?”

I look at him, ready to wither him, to reject his offer, to stand and stalk off and to never inflict myself on him again. I gaze deep into his eyes, into his soul… and I can’t do it. Because I do love him.

“Yes,” I say instead, choked with emotion.

Cheers go up all around, but I only have eyes for him. He rushes forwards, barely able to get the ring on my finger in his excitement, and he kisses me long and deep. My heart is racing, my mouth is dry, I can feel every molecule of air pass by.

When he pulls away and smiles at me, I want to freeze the moment, to live in it forever, but I don’t.

Instead, I smile back.