The Words - An Autobiography

If first, you don't succeed

Several weekends following my first attempted proposal, I placed my hand next to hers, took a cautious glance down to avoid her catching me, and determined that her ring finger appeared approximately the size of my pinkie. Based on that, I bought a ring, receiving an education in color, clarity, and cut that left my eyes crossed and my head spinning. The following weekend, instead of parking my car behind her dorm before we headed up to her room, I suggested that we could get something to eat first and not find ourselves famished later.

We had agreed that would be a better plan for some time, except that the thought had never yet survived our first kiss. Noticing that I'd worn nicer slacks and a dress shirt rather than jeans and a t-shirt, she asked whether she should change before we went - wherever that was since I was all gussied up. I asked about her little black dress, which I hadn't seen since that night at the club where we'd met. I insisted that I'd wait in the car. We had established that once her dorm room door closed, we were unlikely to emerge until it was time for my drive home. And the thought of her wearing nothing but a fancy bra and panties intended to go with that little black dress..., I wasn't fooling myself that we'd be going anywhere.

I promised her we'd go someplace nice so that she wouldn't feel overdressed, having scoped out what was generally considered the nicest restaurant in the area. I clipped on a tie while I waited and put on the sports jacket I'd left folded on the seat behind me, with the little black box in one of the pockets. Fortunately, since she'd decided to wear a long winter coat over that little black dress, we did manage to reach the restaurant without abandoning our plans to rush back to her room and peel off that dress as I'd fantasized so often.

I'd recently celebrated my twenty-first birthday, officially becoming an adult, and could now legally buy alcohol. She lowered her menu over which she presented me with a quizzical frown when I ordered a bottle of Champagne. A tear suddenly rolled down her cheek, and I could see that her menu shook as the waiter left to retrieve the wine. "I should have suspected something when you asked me to wear this dress," she told me, "then put on a tie and jacket while I changed."

That dress! My heart nearly stopped when she removed her winter coat, and murmurs filled the restaurant. She'd also worn heels and towered over everyone, including me. It reminded me again how far out of my league she was, and I suspected that to be the topic of the continued whispering I heard. The confidence I'd gained the past few months drained from my body, as did my resolve. But we were already there, dressed for some special occasion. And I had no other convenient excuses for ordering champagne. So, I took a deep breath, needing a moment longer to compose myself, and claimed, "I'm not sure what you suspect."

"Liar. Am I wrong?"

The waiter returned with the Champagne, showing us both the bottle, which he opened with barely a pop, poured a little into my glass, then waited expectantly. It was the first time I'd ordered wine at a restaurant and, other than what I'd seen in movies, had no idea what he expected, so I glanced up at him, at both glasses. Then the little box I'd slipped from my pocket to provide him a glimpse. And he filled our glasses, then made himself scarce.

My girlfriend, not yet more - but hopefully soon to be so much more, forever - stared at me across the table without comment before lifting her glass, touching mine, then taking a short, silent sip as I did the same. Her eyes remained locked on mine, and I finally gave in, ended the suspense, and confirmed her suspicions when I stood, self-conscious hearing the renewed murmurs of those around us. I hadn't considered the possibility of an audience ahead of time, which did nothing to alleviate the anxiety that suddenly seized my throat.

The moment was surreal. I was not aware of the act of kneeling, but I found myself down on a knee, opening the little box I'd done my best to keep discretely out of view. And the speed and volume of the murmurs racing about the room increased dramatically. My girlfriend, not yet more, raised her hand to her chest just above the neckline of her little black dress, visibly requiring a moment to compose herself. "That's very beautiful," she said, raising her eyes from the box in my hand, tears streaming down her face. She smiled, one of her grimace smiles, and whispered, "You are a persistent asshole."