This is it. The next time they start climbing again, the tour guide will stop and everyone will look his way. The moment will arrive. I’ve never been so terrified.
It was all meant to be perfect. Right on sunset, on her birthday, with a spectacular view, a ring I chose myself. It’s not meant to be freezing cold, drizzling with rain, and we weren’t meant to have argued in the car on the way here. She wanted to call it off and come another day, but how could I explain why it was so important to be here? Maybe I should have called it off after all. I can see her shoulders shivering. She’s cold, wet and miserable, and undoubtedly blaming it on my stubborness to come here.
My hands are so sweaty I can hardly hold onto the railing. My heart is beating so hard inside my chest that I’m exhausted. My ears are ringing from the blood rushing through them. I’m sure the guide just told us something interesting about the view, but I can’t hear him, and even if I could, I can hardly even see. Why oh why did I think that proposing on the Sydney Harbour Bridge would be a good idea? What if she says no? I look down at the cars along the road beneath us. I’d rather jump than suffer the humiliation.
But now we’re climbing the stairs again. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think, don’t think, a chant on every stair. Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t – bang, right into her back.
‘Sorry!’ I mutter. And then the tour guide announces something, all faces eagerly turn to me, watching, waiting.
Shaking too hard to get down on one knee. Drop to both knees. And she’s looking down at me, that beautiful face, so beautiful, I don’t deserve her, I can’t even ask her.
‘Liz, will you marry me?’ So much for the carefully prepared speech. She looks stunned, and she can’t speak. She covers her mouth with her hands.
The ring!
‘I’ve got a ring for you,’ I say. It’s tied with string to a zipper so I can’t accidentally drop it. I can’t open the pocket, I fumble, and then I get it free and show it to her. It doesn’t look good enough, just a gold band and a tiny clear rock on it, not impressive enough. How do I explain how much it means to me?
‘Look, I got your name engraved inside it,’ I manage to say. And she stares at the tiny thing, and looks inside. She frowns. Something’s wrong.
‘You spelled my name wrong,’ she says flatly, and everyone looks horrified, shocked, and at this moment, just to make it even worse, the drizzle turns into a deluge.
I stare at her, devastated. Her wet hair is hanging flat over her forehead and cheeks.
I can’t stand up. I can’t move. But then, incredibly, she collapses down in front of me and embraces me tightly.
‘What’s your answer?’ someone in the crowd yells.
And she pulls back, laughing, unbelievably laughing and crying at the same time, and before she even says it, finally, I understand that this is all that matters – not the weather or the words or the ring – just us. And I laugh too.
First attempt at 15 minute fiction by Roz
This is it. The next time they start climbing again, the tour guide will stop and everyone will look his way. The moment will arrive. I’ve never been so terrified.
It was all meant to be perfect. Right on sunset, on her birthday, with a spectacular view, a ring I chose myself. It’s not meant to be freezing cold, drizzling with rain, and we weren’t meant to have argued in the car on the way here. She wanted to call it off and come another day, but how could I explain why it was so important to be here? Maybe I should have called it off after all. I can see her shoulders shivering. She’s cold, wet and miserable, and undoubtedly blaming it on my stubborness to come here.
My hands are so sweaty I can hardly hold onto the railing. My heart is beating so hard inside my chest that I’m exhausted. My ears are ringing from the blood rushing through them. I’m sure the guide just told us something interesting about the view, but I can’t hear him, and even if I could, I can hardly even see. Why oh why did I think that proposing on the Sydney Harbour Bridge would be a good idea? What if she says no? I look down at the cars along the road beneath us. I’d rather jump than suffer the humiliation.
But now we’re climbing the stairs again. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think, don’t think, a chant on every stair. Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t – bang, right into her back.
‘Sorry!’ I mutter. And then the tour guide announces something, all faces eagerly turn to me, watching, waiting.
Shaking too hard to get down on one knee. Drop to both knees. And she’s looking down at me, that beautiful face, so beautiful, I don’t deserve her, I can’t even ask her.
‘Liz, will you marry me?’ So much for the carefully prepared speech. She looks stunned, and she can’t speak. She covers her mouth with her hands.
The ring!
‘I’ve got a ring for you,’ I say. It’s tied with string to a zipper so I can’t accidentally drop it. I can’t open the pocket, I fumble, and then I get it free and show it to her. It doesn’t look good enough, just a gold band and a tiny clear rock on it, not impressive enough. How do I explain how much it means to me?
‘Look, I got your name engraved inside it,’ I manage to say. And she stares at the tiny thing, and looks inside. She frowns. Something’s wrong.
‘You spelled my name wrong,’ she says flatly, and everyone looks horrified, shocked, and at this moment, just to make it even worse, the drizzle turns into a deluge.
I stare at her, devastated. Her wet hair is hanging flat over her forehead and cheeks.
I can’t stand up. I can’t move. But then, incredibly, she collapses down in front of me and embraces me tightly.
‘What’s your answer?’ someone in the crowd yells.
And she pulls back, laughing, unbelievably laughing and crying at the same time, and before she even says it, finally, I understand that this is all that matters – not the weather or the words or the ring – just us. And I laugh too.
‘Yes,’ she says.