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Good evening. I am a woman in this story, even though the author is male. Do not laugh too much. That is not the joke. Here is the story:
I sat at the table. Waited for my date to arrive. I think I liked this guy. He told me to meet him at this fancy restaurant with a French name I had no hope of pronouncing. But I got to make myself look all pretty. I looked gorgeous enough to tame a lion. Maybe.
I was distracting myself with women that tried, but failed, to be as pretty as I was that night. I could tell you everything about what I was wearing: I started by curling my hair...oh I'm sorry, I'll tell you soon; my date's just sat down!
"I'm here," he smiles.
"It's obvious," I tell him. We laugh.
So a conversation begins, a nice one, a comfortable one, but something about him seems odd and distracted. I shrug it off. We talk about Alaskan sledding dogs.
The waiter comes and takes our orders away, and the conversation continues, following a path towards the topic of street vendors, then music, then Weirdest Bathroom Experiences. He seems sweet and thoughtful tonight when he talks. He's also, um, very cute.
And then the food comes. He suddenly seems much less interesting. So I tell him, and he laughs. And we eat a little. I take a bite of something that has one of those Ç symbols in it.
And a fork hits the ground. And it's his fork. And I swallow.
So he goes down to pick it up and he's on one knee and "Karen, will you marry me?"
I stare back at him. His eyes are sympathetic and suspenseful and the sweetest things I've ever seen. I feel the hundreds of eyes turn and watch. The silence. Listen. Just silence. And so I answer, as confident as I've ever been.
"Um...yes...but my name is Emily. What's your name?"
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