Proposal

You’re riding shotgun in my beat-up 2005 Nissan Sentra, with the windows cracked because the AC is on the fritz, and my radio underscoring the silence as it cuts out whenever its antenna shakes loose. We don’t know it yet, but it’s the last time we’ll take a long ride together like this. The wind whistles through the open window, tussling your long curls as you snooze peacefully, while the engine groans, as if mourning that this moment will soon pass.

We’re going on a hike, far away from the city, just the two of us. We’ll spend the next few hours serenely trudging through nature to reach a beautiful clearing, where your boyfriend will be waiting with a ring and bent knee. You’ll turn to me, with shock, awe and unbridled happiness on your face, as you ask if I helped plan this. When we hug, I’ll hold you just a second too long, then turn to your new fiancé and playfully tease with a shaky voice “Take care of my best friend.” We’ll share smiles and platitudes for a brief moment, and I’ll fight to commit your smiling face to memory. Then, in a flash, you’ll both turn into doves, white as bone, and take off with all the confidence of creatures born to fly. I’ll watch you become specks in the horizon. In a moment of defiance, I’ll flap my featherless arms and try to follow, but gravity will tighten its hold on me. 

The car shudders, as if in anticipation of this, then sputters. It wheezes out its final prayer before finally giving out, and we’re stranded on the side of the road. I’m frantic now, calling for a tow, trying to slyly text your boyfriend, wondering where the hell we’ll spend the night. But you look serene, fresh from your nap, unaware of the imagined farewell I’ve played a hundred times, and you clasp my hand in your human palm. Tomorrow, maybe, your boyfriend will make a new plan to propose. But tonight, you and I find a dingy motel, stay up sharing inconsequential gossip and watching trashy reality TV. And in the dim glow of the flat screen, I tell you that I love you.