A lazy stroll through the park, crisp autumn air, leaves fight then race. His fingers squeeze mine, let go. He’s on his knees.
The box, small and black and velvet, open in his hand. Gaze expectant. “Will you marry me?”
A thousand tiny strings grab onto my heart, yank, pain and elation at war.
What about the fight we had yesterday? The way he picks his teeth after popcorn? His mother hates me. Children haven’t been discussed. Would he always part his hair like that? He gulps when he drinks.
Eyes meet. Those strings pull, release. I gasp.
©Laura L. Zimmerman 2016