Note: This is an archived short story. See here.

The proposal was not romantic. We were fighting. I arrived late to dinner, which she had prepared, smelling strongly of whiskey and another woman’s perfume.

“I’m tired of this!” she screamed after a minute of discussion, and violently pushed herself away from the table, rattling the plates and flatware. “How can you do it? Do you know how bad this makes me feel?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?” she panted, no standing and leaning against the wall, dejected and desperate.

“I know how bad it makes you feel.”

“Don’t you care?!” she replied, shocked.

I shrugged apologetically and dodged the question, “I just wish you were happy.”

She pushed herself off the wall and stood next to my chair, hovering over me, seeking some kind of reaction. “I’m not! I’m never going to be. Not with you. Not like this!”

I scooped a small amount of cold snow peas onto my fork and slid each into my mouth. “These are good,” I said pointing at my plate with my fork.

“I’m calling my mother!”

She stormed into the kitchen and dialed her mother. Their conversation was short, very few details were given.

“Olive, wait,” I said, looking up from my plate. “Please call your mother back, tell her not to come.” I forced a smile.

“I’ll be downstairs” She shoved my arm and proceeded to the door.

Though I watched her exit and forcefully pull the door shut behind her, the door slamming, or rather, the sound of the door slamming caused a great and instant anxiety to overwhelm me. I had done all that was possible to suppress my emotions during the quarrel, hoping that my calm would somehow mitigate or even subjugate Olive’s assertions. Her departure was a frustrating surprise.

I ran into my bedroom and ripped the top drawer from my dresser, dumping its contents onto my bed. After pushing the top layer of socks to the side, I discovered what I desired, a jewelry box that had been sitting idle for the past ten months. Shoving the box into my suit jacket’s inner-left pocket, I dashed out of my bedroom, through my front door, losing a shoe on the doorsill, and into the stairwell.

As my shoeless foot hit the marble in the lobby, I saw Olive standing next to the building’s carousel door, watching the traffic trickle through the stoplight.

“Olive!” I yelled in voice laced with embarrassing desperation.

Olive, along with the doorman behind the security desk, turned and looked at me. They both smiled slightly.

“Olive, please come here,” I reiterated.

She obliged and slowly walked towards my spot in the stairwell door. When she was close enough, I stepped out, reached behind her back and pushed her into the cramped stairwell. She sat on the steps.

“Olive, I’m sorry I came home late. I’m sorry I ruined dinner.”

“That’s not good enough,” she snapped and stared into my face with scorn.

“I’m sorry I always ruin dinner. I’m sorry I’m always late.”

“That’s not it!” She clenched her phone to her chest and rocked forward, raising her ass slightly above the step, about to rise to her feet.

Frantic, I impetuously pushed her back to the steps and pleaded, “Wait!” She remained seated. ”I’m sorry I came home drunk. I’m sorry I blamed it on work.”

“And who were you with?” she asked coldly.

“I was at a bar. Alone.”

Olive rolled her eyes, unconvinced.

“There was a girl. I bought her a drink. Nothing else. It was frivolous.”

Olive looked down at her feet, perplexed. “Everything about you is frivolous. Why would you buy someone who isn’t me a drink?” she asked, seeking a genuine response.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m an alcoholic. And I’m insecure. And I’m selfish. And … I’m stupid. And …”

She grinned and interrupted me. “Jesus, you’re not making a very good case for yourself Shane,” she paused, “are you sure you’re a lawyer?”

I smirked and lied, “I trying to be truthful. I want to be honest. I don’t know why I lie so often. I want to stop. I want to make you happy. And I think I can.”

“Stop lying or make me happy?”

“Both.”

“And you didn’t cheat on me tonight?”

“No,” I said truthfully and shook my head.

“And you haven’t cheated on me before?” her demeanor suggested that, if there ever was a time to come clean about such an indiscretion, now was that time.

“Absolutely not,” I lied.

Olive sat her chin on her hand and said, “I just want to be in your life Shane. I haven’t met any of your friends. You haven’t taken me to any of these socials things you say you do for the firm. And I don’t care if you want to get drunk, just bring me along. You can hit on me! Isn’t that enough?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And I want to know where this relationship is going!” she asserted with a frustrated laugh.

I nodded and climbed up the stairs, sitting next to Olive. “I was hoping you would say that,” I said while reaching into my jacket.
Olive looked at me strangely as I struggled to remove the jewelry box from the small inner pocket in my jacket. Finally succeeding, I placed the box on Olive’s knee.

“What’s this?” she gasped.

I smiled and glanced down nervously. “Hopefully where we’re going,” I said.

“I’m not opening that Shane. I didn’t mean…” She moved the box to my lap. “We’ve only been dating for three months!”

I took the box in my hand, stepped down two steps, knelt on my right knee, and said, “Olive, I know I’ve been an asshole… well, always. But would you please give me the next fifty years to fix myself?”

“No!” she exclaimed, laughing. “Are you serious?”

“Entirely,” I paused as we locked eyes in a momentarily, passionate glance, “I love you Olive. Please marry me.”

She buried her head into her hands and, after an excruciating minute, said, “Ok.”

“Ok?” I responded.

She raised her head and pushed her hair behind her ears. “Yes, I’ll marry you Shane,” she said. She smiled and removed the two-carat, emerald-cut diamond from the jewelry box. The ring was sized slightly too large but Olive wore it nonetheless. “But you’re still on a short leash!”

We stood up, embraced, and kissed. We walked back into the lobby. As we waited for the elevator, I said, “Shit. This isn’t right.”

“What isn’t right?” Olive said, instantly paranoid.

Without answering, I turned towards the carousel door and began walking across the lobby.

“Shane?!” Olive yelled.

I stopped at the doorman’s station and said, loud enough for Olive to hear, “Excuse me, could you please call us a cab?”

She jogged over and said, “Where are we going?”

“Zaza. We have a suite reserved.”

Olive grinned and shook her head in disbelief. I grabbed her hand and pulled her into the carousel door. As we stepped out onto the sidewalk, she said, “don’t you think you’ll need both of your shoes?”

“I hope not.” I winked.

A cab arrived within five minutes and we were at the hotel in another ten. As we walked into Zaza’s magnificent lobby, I asked Olive to wait a moment while I made sure the room was ready.

After exchanging pleasantries with the extremely homosexual desk attendant, I handed him my room key and a twenty dollar bill and said, “We’re in room 201, could you please issue us new keys – I must have left the other key at dinner.”

He responded, “You need another key?”

“No,” I said sternly, “I need you to make it so that the keys I received earlier tonight will not open the door to my room. I need two brand new keys. Do you understand?”

He nodded.