She's got her fingers winding around the moving tail of the cat she called Furlough because she thought it sounded like an artist. She asked for two things when she moved in; her own bed and a cat named Furlough. He found they were both difficult to cope with. The other hand is tracing in circles on the report she should be editing. But instead she's waiting for him to come home. He can tell through the crack in the door. He can tell by the candle on the table and the glazed expression on her expressive face.
But in the instant before her swings open the door, he curbs himself on the anticipation of the joy when she flings herself into his arms. And somehow it starts to seem wrong that such a girl should have a bare finger. The fourth one. He can see it curling around Furlough's tail in constant movement. It's taunting him.
So when he opens the door and opens his arms; he knows. It has always been time.
He realizes he should've asked her father.
He doesn't care.
He doesn't know what he's talking about. Something about snapdragons and sweet peas and the point on the bottom of a heart. It doesn't matter. Every word he's ever said to her has been the same three over again.
He wishes he had planned it; made it more special. A proposal, he has to remind himself mid sentence, is a big deal.
And it is. He wipes tears off her face and fashions a napkin ring with a promise tied around it. He'll get her a better one soon.
She says she doesn't need a different one.
"A promise is a good enough gem."
