I turn the box over in my hand. It feels like the heaviest thing in the world. But it is something so small...
I love him. I love him so much and I know that I want to do this. The only questions remaining are when and how. The who is obvious and the why I have already stated. Blaine Devon Anderson. Because I love him.
The box is red, but the ring inside is platinum. I'm almost embarrassed that I had to call Cooper to confirm that Blaine would like the ring. Surely, by this time, I would have known him enough to pick out a ring that he'd love. But I am glad that I called him. His obvious jubilation at my imminent popping the question has settled my nerves quite a bit.
The room seems warm, and I am sitting on our bed. I can feel it dip at my weight upon it. But he headed out to buy groceries and I am sitting on our bed alone. Alone with my thoughts. And again the how keeps tapping me on the shoulder.
Perhaps I could do it on our next visit back to Ohio. I'll take him to Pavarotti's grave and hold his hand and, weather-permitting, fall on my knee with an impressive speech, presenting the ring, opening its box when his eyes begin to shine.
The window is open, and through it I hear the general city bustle which is always present outside the apartment. When we first came here, I couldn't sleep because of it. Now, I can't sleep without it.
I could organise a picnic in Central Park, and hire a band and we could watch them as they unfurl a banner which has my proposal written upon it. And then I'd take out the box and it'd just be the two of us. Everything and everyone else would melt away into nothingness. Only that wouldn't be us. It's too generic. It isn't special enough.
I turn the box again. One, two three. I can curl my fingers around it and it can't quite fit in the palm of my hand. It's like it wants to be revealed, like it can't stand not being looked at. It isn't a shy little thing.
Maybe I need to take him to the Empire State Building. We always said it'd be one of the first places we'd visit in New York, and yet we still haven't gone. We would climb to the observation deck and look out upon the city that changed us. We would murmur thoughts to each other as I plucked up enough courage, and then I'd fall on one knee, tourists-permitting, and ask him to be my husband.
I stand and, after looking at the box one final time, return it to my drawer. I leave it in that pink sock which I never wear because I lost the other one of the half. I have plenty of time to think of the how. For now, the who is on his way back from the store and I want to have a fresh pot of coffee waiting for him when he walks through the door.