Just a little something I wrote and then kind of forgot about.
Cliché
You've been sitting at the table for over an hour. The bottle of wine you ordered for the occasion is now only half full. You are certain that you told her to meet you at eight, but as your eyes keep glancing back to your watch, you hope that you were the one to make the mistake. You must have told her nine instead as you made your way to yet another surgery. Both of you were busy today. It is entirely possible that you gave her the wrong time, that or she misheard you. You are certain that she would never purposely be late to dinner with you or forget you altogether.
You pour yourself another glass of wine even though you would have preferred a beer instead. Wine was her thing. You were much more comfortable at a bar, holding a beer, Yankees game humming in the background, but for her, you could be the guy that sits in an expensive restaurant, your leather jacket traded in for one more suited for the environment this embodied.
You check your watch once again and you see that the staff keeps looking towards you and more than anything you want to knock the smug grin right off of the guy that is having a very animated conversation with the hostess when he points your way.
That feeling completely leaves your body as you see her walk through the door. She takes off her coat and hands it to the hostess and she's making her way to you, a slight smile on her face as she mouths 'Sorry' before reaching the table. You pull her close to you and place a kiss on her lips and you see that the smug grin on the maître d's face has disappeared and found a new home on your own as he stares at your companion with envy.
"I'm so sorry," she repeats as you pull the chair out for her.
"It's okay, really." You assure her of this, but you see a look of uneasiness on her face. "Are you okay?"
"Hmm? Oh, yeah, I'm fine."
She doesn't at all look fine now that you pay attention to her eyes and what scares you even more is that you haven't ever seen this look even though you've known her for almost two decades.
"Did something happen at the hospital? Did you lose a patient?" You want to know what's bothering her. It doesn't sit well with you that she is trying to avoid what's upsetting her. You promised each other that you would face obstacles up front, no avoiding. Too many problems come from ignoring anything that is out of place. Both of you know this more than you would like to.
When she says nothing and averts her eyes from yours, you pull her hands into your own and rub them with your thumbs, hoping to open her up. You've always been good at reading her, at helping her to confront problems, but this seems all seems so new.
"Addi?"
You wait for her eyes to return to yours and when they do, you can see that she is close to crying. Her mouth contradicts this however as it curls into a smile. "What is going on with you?" You question her and let a laugh escape your mouth as she wrinkles her face in confusion.
"Nothing. Everything is absolutely perfect."
She reaches across the table and places a rushed kiss on your lips before returning to her spot as both of you see the maître d' walking your way, and as he places the meal before you, you look at her. "I ordered your favorite. I hope you don't mind." You smile sheepishly and hope that she doesn't get emotional on you tonight which has been happening increasingly more over the past few weeks.
"No, it's okay. I love it." You inwardly sigh as she begins to eat and you're glad that she seems happy. You wanted tonight to be amazing, perfect even, and even though you've been waiting for an hour, you're both tired from a full day of work, and you can tell she has a million different thoughts, running through her head, this dinner is perfect. You're with her and really that's all that matters to you.
She's all you've ever wanted. You gave up your best friend for a night with her. And later you gave up your job, your home, the city you hold close to your heart for just the chance to be the one she wanted.
"How about a toast?" You begin to fill both of your glasses with wine and hand one to her. You've never been good at anything romantic. You're Mark Sloan. You've never had to be romantic. A smirk, a look, that was all it ever took for you to have any woman you wanted. You begin to speak, but she puts her glass down, so you place your own back on the table.
"What's wrong?" You're certain this is the end. She's given up, decided you are wrong together. She wants to go back to Derek. Your heart actually begins to ache and you almost reach into your pocket for you cell phone to give Burke a call.
"I can't drink wine," she informs you with a smile. "Not for a while anyways."
You look at her and as the realization hits, every romantic cliché pops into your head and you have an overwhelming desire to pull her with you outside just for the sake of taking her into your arms and spinning in the rain which you are certain has begun to fall. You settle for reaching your pocket and pulling out the box you have carried around for months now.
"Marry me."