he proposed last night. got down on one knee and everything. he looked me right in the eye, told me he loved me and that he wanted to spend every morning for the rest of his life waking up next to me. that he wanted me on the receiving end of every goodnight kiss, every shared french fry, every silly little fight, from now until eternity.

in the moments that followed, i found myself composing this weird little acceptance speech in my head…

thank you to that little cafe on macdougal where he stomped on my foot. thank you to the makers of twister for putting both of our right hands on yellow. thank you to bob dylan for playing on shuffle the first time we finally came together.

thank you cabernet, thank you lincoln center, thank you mom, thank you dad, 

thank you, 

thank you, 

thank you.

he asked me to marry him last night.

i said “thank you.” 

the little things.

the women in my family have this bizarre habit of wandering around as we brush our teeth. we look out the window, organize our things, fold laundry— anything but the standard staring at oneself contemplatively in the mirror whilst caring for one’s gums. all three of us, my mother, my sister, and i, get comments on this phenomenon all the time. people just can’t seem to reconcile the fact that we’d rather run around our respective habitats than hang out in the bathroom while brushing our teeth. because of this, i feel strangely close to them in these moments— i always think of my mom and her buzzing electric toothbrush and my sister and her compulsive flossing when i brush up every morning and every night. 

tonight, i reached for my toothbrush as usual. my mind started to wander, as usual, my feet itching to carry me out of the bathroom and complete whatever menial task i had on my to-do list. i reached for the toothpaste. i am, admittedly, very haphazard about my toothpaste application— i squeeze right from the middle and wind up with a different amount of minty sticky paste on my toothbrush each time. you are my opposite in this way, diligently squeezing from the bottom every time, applying exactly the same amount of paste onto your toothbrush, standing still while facing the mirror as you brush.

tonight, when i picked up the tube, i didn’t have to wrestle with it, didn’t have to deal with that terrible explosion of goo that comes from constantly and recklessly squeezing from the middle of the tube, because the last person who used the toothpaste had been careful to squeeze it gently and methodically from the bottom. 

tonight, i smiled from ear to ear as i brushed my teeth. i stood still and i looked in the mirror and i thought of you.

friday.

it is a dance, carefully choreographed and carried out each evening with painstaking precision. the shower, the blow dryer, one-two-three, one-two-three. she makes a particular face in the mirror, the same one her mother still makes three thousand miles away. 

the eyeliner, mascara, one-two-three, one-two-three. she reaches for her lipstick, smiles to herself picturing the lusty look he gets on his face when she wears it. smile, smooth it on, blot off the extra, repeat. 

four-five-six-one-two-three-four-five-six

she changes the radio station, (one-two-three, one-two-three) sings along in her underwear, (and four and five and six and) waits for the phone call. it comes, of course, right on time and she slips a sweater over her head and slings her bag over her shoulder. 

she checks her lipstick, pursing her lips into the mirror, and disappears into the night.

there’s a wanton assortment of things here. a collage of us through the years, peppered with possessions i’ll never be able to rid myself of.

there’s the dress i wore, the mismatched silverware we used before we were married, the sprinkler attachment that never worked quite correctly and would misfire, inevitably soaking you from head to toe.

"mary!" you’d shout, “it’s happened again!"

and i would come rushing out with a towel and, more often than not, my camera, clutching my sides with laughter as you sputtered and grumbled and stomped back to the house with big wet footprints.

there are the old christmas lights, the ones we put up before we were practiced, when we didn’t know what we were doing. i would hold the ladder for you, trying not to giggle as you hung and re-hung the strands, swearing and thrashing about all the while.

"mary!" you’d shout, “hold still, dammit!"

and i’d try desperately to wipe the smile off of my face, but my silent chuckles would shake the ladder and before you knew it, you’d be laughing with me, tears pouring from our eyes as we wiggled and moaned in hysterics.

we only got half of our lights up that year, choosing to hang wreaths and tinsel on the dark half of the house. we drank champagne and admired our handiwork.

"mary," you said, “it couldn’t be better."

and it couldn’t have been, the two of us standing there in the cold with cheap champagne and rosy cheeks, gazing at our home, the one we lived in together. the wind blew all of the tinsel from the shutters within hours, but we loved our little creation so much, we kept the rest up until valentine’s day.