It was all supposed to be a pit stop: Seattle, David, the relationship. I reminded myself of that on Mondays when I stumbled into work crashing hard from the weekend. But by Friday I was fully immersed in my life with David, my memo forgotten in the throes of the happiness I found with him. Perhaps this time is different, I’d tell myself. This was my artist, not just any artist—the one suited for me.

Four days a week we went for a run around Lake Union. On Tuesdays I cooked, on Thursdays he did. I did the laundry, he cleaned the bathroom—we fought about the dishwasher. We made love every day, the newness of that hadn’t worn off yet. We brunched at Pike Place Market on Sundays and ordered late night takeout on weekends when David had a show. He bought me flowers every week. I’d come from my shift at The Jane and there’d be a bouquet from the Market on the small table where we ate our meals, and an open bag of Cheetos, staling out, as he called it. We watched Homeland and Game of Thrones, a bowl of kettle corn between us. We fought about money (he wouldn’t take any from me), and his late night bar trips with Ferdinand were a subject of contention (Ferdinand was an alcoholic). It was all so beautiful—my life with him—and unlike anything I’d had before. And then Monday would come again, and I’d remind myself that this would all have to end soon. I couldn’t live this life forever. Monday, Monday, Monday. I hated it for different reasons than everyone else.

And then, on a Monday in November, a year to the day he pulled the splinter from my finger, he asked me to marry him. It went something like this…

I was sitting on the floor in front of the fire, my back resting against the sofa and my legs spread out in front of me. David’s head was resting in my lap, and as we spoke I played with his hair.

“It’s a completely different language,” I joked. “When I first got here I had no idea what you guys were talking about.”

“Come on,” he said. “It can’t be that different.”

He had a bowl of sweets balanced on his chest. They looked like gems in the firelight. He took turns putting them in my mouth and then his. I felt perfectly chubby, and happy, and content. He was shirtless, his jeans sitting low on his waist. I could see the logo strip of his boxer briefs. I ran a hand down his warm chest before saying, “All right, American boy. Are you ready then? For a true lesson in British lingo?”

He dropped a couple of M&Ms in his mouth and winked at me before singing a few lines of “American Boy.” I waited for him to finish before I said:

“Skin and blister means sister.”

“Da fuck?” he said. “How’d they come up with that?”

“I don’t know. Sisters rub on your nerves, I suppose.” This seemed to appease him because he nodded solemnly. He’d told me that his sister tormented him throughout their childhood.

“It gets better,” I said, “so hush. Apples and pears…are stairs.”

He sat up. “You’re messing with me.” His hair fell over his eyes and I wanted to touch it and leave it at the same time.

I laughed. “I’m not. Lie back down.” He did as he was told, but he had a funny look on his face.

“Pete Tong means wrong.”

“Okay, give me that one in a sentence.” He put a red M&M between my lips and I frowned as I chewed.

“This whole situation’s gone Pete Tong,” I offered.

“Poor Pete,” David said. “What did that guy do wrong? The whole of England is taking the mick out of him.”

“Yes,” I said. “Imagine how Jesus feels. He’s a word for disbelief. Seems rather ironic.”

“I’m not ever going to take the Lord’s name in vain again,” David vowed, a hand over his heart. “You should stay away from Pete Tong. That poor fucker.”

He set the bowl aside and rubbed the inside of my thigh with one of his hands. I knew where this was going.

“Girls say spend a penny when they need to piss. I need to go spend a penny.”

“That’s fantastic. That’s my favorite,” he said. “Now, are you up for a shag?”

I threw back my head and laughed. “That’s the only one you know.”

He flipped over until he was on his stomach and he kissed slowly up my thighs.

“You. (Kiss) Are. (Kiss) Right.”

And then out of nowhere he grew serious. “Your work visa expires soon.”

My hand froze in his hair. It was true.

“Yes,” I said.

“Marry me, Yara.”

I thought he was just throwing out an idea, and I was just about to shoot it down when he produced a ring from the bottom of the M&M bowl. My mouth fell open.

We knocked the bowl over as we both stood up and jewel colored ovals skittered across the floor. I turned my head to watch them, my shock palatable.

It was a mistake—saying yes. I knew it even as my eyes traveled from one M&M to another: red, and blue, and yellow. I’d remember them scattered across the floor like that forever, his proposal still wet on his lips. The earnest fire in his eyes.

“We’re precise chemistry, Yara. We’re so good this feels like a dream. I want to marry the shit out of you.”

And in that exact moment, I thought of Petra, the way she was creeping toward him, and my mouth opened to say yes.

“Yes, David,” I said, my eyes filling with tears.

And then he slid an oval diamond onto my ring finger. I stared at it as it caught the light, too beautiful for words. He kissed me and I wrapped myself around him, euphoric, my Monday memo forgotten—everything forgotten.