Two Thousand Sunsets From You

beginning.

As far as dreariness in New York went, that day was just about the most prevalent Ben had seen in all his nineteen years living there. "Twenty-eight inches so far, with many more to come," he remembered the weatherman shouting on the news that morning. He absolutely believed it, too. It wasn't that snow was a rarity in the city, it was just that there was already a lot of snow build up from previous weeks with even more falling every second. And that, mixed with the below-freezing temperatures and mind-bogglingly cold twenty-mile-an-hour winds, he did not like. More than "not like", he loathed this weather. But Hope absolutely loved it, and so he put up with it. As he trudged through the sludgy, unkempt snowcaps scouring the sidewalks, he blended in perfectly with most of the passersby.

He was your typical New Yorker in winter; sporting an exotic furred pea coat over a black and white wool-knitted sweater, black skinny jeans he'd seen on some fashion show he'd watched alongside Hope, a matching black beanie from Hickoree's Floor Two, one of Hope's beautifully (intricately, even) hand-sewn infinity scarves, and brown leathered chukkas he'd gotten a heck of a deal on during the annual spring blowout sales.

Those clothes, however, weren't what made him so warm inside during that walk. He was meeting up with Hope, who was his beloved, at Frank's Diner, a small, hole-in-the-wall café. It was nothing fancy, and nothing truly distinguished it from the thousands of other tiny restaurants littering New York and Brooklyn. Maybe not to anyone else, of course. Frank's was so much to Ben and Hope, though. Everything, it was the start of everything. And as it stood, he had a very exciting date in store there for them tonight. If only he could get through that pesky, unceasing snow. . .

--

As it turned out, the weatherman was more.. well, correct than he or anyone else originally expected. It took Ben a little over an hour to walk the seven blocks from his apartment all the way to Frank's—the snow just wouldn't quit tumbling down. It had caused him to stop several times when the freezing gusts got a little too forceful or the snow a little too thick to see through.

Oh, the Joy of snow.

Of course he could've driven the seven blocks it took to get there, but he indulged himself in the exercise and physical exertion that came with walks like this. What he did not like, however, was the idea of driving, in New York traffic, right in the midst of a blizzard.  And so came the daunting walk through the vast, snowcapped city streets. When pressed three years ago which route he would've taken, he would've assuredly said his trusty 2002 Maxima.

But that was all before She came into his life, just like this snowstorm had entered New York: quietly, swiftly, and fiercely.

--

Tonight was going to be the absolute best night of Ben's life, of that he was sure. There were so many things lining up for Hope and himself: prosperity right on the horizon like the most brilliant sunset he'd ever seen. He could hardly even stand the excitement and pride swelling in him with every passing second, and every step he took only exhilarated his attitude. Put simply, he was going to propose to Hope tonight.

Okay, sure. Maybe other guys would have taken their girl on some expensive excursion before finally popping that momentous question, but not Ben. That simply wasn't who he was, nor was that something Hope liked to do. She didn't necessarily not like it, but she'd rather simplicities versus "over-complications" as she called them. She did love adventures, though. Extraordinarily so, one might add. She was always turning the most basic things into adventures, such as finding a new outfit or a new scarf-making or sewing material.

He still vividly remembered how she'd once spent hours and hours shopping for an appropriate outfit for a job interview and how she'd vehemently refused to buy more than one item from the same store or even the same block, because "what fun is it if it's mainstream and stereotypical," she'd asked, with that same familiar look in her beautiful brown eyes. It was the look of fervor, the look he never grew tired of. It was the look of home to him.