The Proposal

The Proposal

Harry Buschman

He felt the loss of a little of himself every day. Not quite enough for others to see, but he knew it, and he was aware of it when he had to do something he used to do with ease. Now it seemed the snallest thing was a harbinger of something worse to come. He might miss a high step, or maybe the telephone might ring in another room without his hearing.

He was convinced that living alone contributed to it. Each day’s loss went unnoticed. But whenever Agnes came to visit––which seemed all too seldom these days, he thought––she’d mention it in an offhanded way.

“You’re not listening to me, Richard.”

He heard her talking, but as attentive as he tried to be, he couldn’t make out what she’d asked him. So he shrugged it off and said, “I’m sorry, Agnes... I was thinking of something else, would you mind repeating that?” And she’d repeat it, mouthing the words carefully. She knew of course, she had to know.

Then occasionally they’d be walking and he’d take her arm, not so much to help her, but to ask silently for her help. It was sad feeling his love inside and knowing it was not nearly enough to keep her all to himself. He’d lose her in the end––he knew he held a losing hand.

He decided to tell her next Thursday night. It was their usual night. He decided for her sake more than his. It would be best to do it then. “How best?” he wondered, ”before or after dinner?”

“During.” ...and then he realized he was talking to himself again. “Why do I do that?” he asked himself. He shook his head irritably.

“Lutesce” would be a good place to do it, somewhere between the entree and the dessert. There was always something symbolic about clearing away the dishes and wiping the tablecloth free of accumulated crumbs and dribbles. That would probably be the best time to bring it to a head, Cast off the old––yes the old. He almost felt she would welcome the chance to break it off gracefully, without rancor. Take up with someone younger.

...and him? How would he feel about it after? A warm spot by the fire, with the bitter wind outside, maybe some music––turned down, nothing intrusive. Yes, a man of fifty should begin to think of living alone. Think about thinking backwards, of remembered snapshots and scented letters.

Agnes would get on well––he was sure of that. She would turn up the volume and pick up the beat. Wouldn’t she though! That was the gist of it, he’d been a stone around her neck for a long time, an anchor where none was needed, or worse––an obstacle.

So he took special pains choosing a tie. Nothing gay or gaudy. Not too somber either. Something casual, as though it might have been chosen at the last minute before going out. Green and tan perhaps. No, not that one! She gave him that one for his birthday. There! Brown and blue knitted. It would be acceptable with the blue suit. Then he asked himself––what did it matter. It would end badly, whatever he wore.

It was late spring and she walked into the restaurant wearing a light wrap over a print dress. They didn’t bother to check it, instead she draped it over the back of her chair and it formed a decorative setting. He was reminded of a flower in a bouquet of lesser blooms––like a diva, he thought, waiting for her cue from the maestro.

“I wish I knew what I wanted,” she said from behind her menu. “Do you realize I’m thirty seven years old and I’ve never had duck in orange sauce. Is it good here?”

“It’s good everywhere,” he answered. His mind was far away: certainly not on the duck––not on the soft light that seemed to surround her. His mind was searching for an entrance line, something to help him ease his way in.

“How many times have we eaten here?” he asked her. “It can’t be the first time you’ve had the duck.”

She thought a moment, then smiled. “I suppose we’ve eaten here a dozen times or more, I”ve always loved it here, Richard. Every time we come here we make an important decision. You changed jobs once, remember? I rented a new apartment ...”

It was the opportunity he was waiting for!

“Agnes,” he began.

“Don’t start off like that,” Agnes laughed. “That’s the way they taught us at teaching school.”

“How shall I begin?”

“Tell me what’s on your mind? You’ve been thinking I know ... I can always tell. I can even tell you what you’re thinking.”

“No you can’t. You couldn’t possibly know.”

“Richard, we’ve been dating more then three years. I haven’t seen anyone but you in three years. It’s the same with you I know. That’s long enough don’t you think?”

“I don’t know as I’d put it that way.”

“”Well I would. I think it’s time we got married.”

©Harry Buschman