Hey, I yell at him. My heels keep sticking in the mud. David springs up and over the curb effortlessly and pounces on the sidewalk, his body loose, like a dancer’s. If he hears me, he doesn’t turn around.
Next month, on Valentine’s Day, David will take me on a walk to the street where some of the first cherry trees are blossoming. We’ll walk from tree to tree with our necks craned, looking up at the blue sky through eyelet flowers. Standing under cherry blossoms makes you beautiful. It’s like candlelight, but instead of a warm glow over your skin the petals light you up from the inside. Under one of these trees, David will propose to me. The conversation will go like this:
David: You always tell me I don’t take this relationship seriously enough.
Me: We don’t have to get into this today.
David: So how’s this for commitment?
And he’ll give me a small box. Polished wood, with a hinge to open it. Inside, a rose-cut diamond in a setting carved with flowers, too ornate for today.
David: I got it on Fort Street. It’s almost a hundred years old.
Me: Is this for real?
I’ll try the ring on, but the tiny gold band will be too small for me. I’ll have to hold my arms up over my head to let all the blood drain out of my fingers so I can force it on. It will turn me into someone from a hundred years ago. When I hold it out in front of me, my hand will look like it belongs to Clara Bow. I’ll want to keep the ring, even later. The dark branches will thrust up and out into the blue sky. The petals smell like corn tortillas. The sun on David’s face, filtered through cherry blossoms, his hair buckwheat honey. He pushes up the sleeve of Janey’s old sweater. It promptly falls back down to his wrist. Pilling under the arms. It’s a certain kind of green, like new stems. What is that colour? Chartreuse. David will smile in my direction, unfocused and self-satisfied, like he’s just climbed one of his five-twelve overhangs.
And despite all of this, I’ll tell him: yes.
I walk past the cars parked all along the ocean side of Dallas Road. People sit in the front seats with their radios on, listening to CBC and watching the freighters sail to Seattle. The lights from the town across the water are just starting to sparkle. Most of the guests will have arrived at Milt and Janey’s house by now. I imagine the scene: Milt wearing an eye patch, tugging at Janey, trying to get her to dance. Janey with her lips pressed into a pink rosette: Stop it, Milt, stop it. Way up ahead, David just turned around. He’s waiting for me to cross the street now, and this cake feels heavy in my hands. The lightest one I could make. It’s mostly air, this cake. It weighs so much I want to drop it.
