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La Primavera

Valentine’s Day was unseasonably warm. We spread a picnic blanket I’d borrowed from my boss because I didn’t own one, and my date and I unwrapped the sandwiches we’d made.

The sun shone on our faces. In this town it’s hard to find green space at all, let alone an entire park hidden away in a glen with absolute privacy. Miracles do happen. We sat in the grass and flowers with the place to ourselves, the breeze still chilly enough to draw us closer together for some lunchtime snuggling on the green.

We enjoyed the sound of silence. Even the city traffic was reduced to a low murmur from this spot.

I popped the cork on a bottle of sparkling grape juice and proposed a toast. “To us,” I said.

“To us.” We clinked our glasses together, and meant it.

My lover was beautiful that day, reclining in the park with the wind in her hair. “This is perfect,” she said.

“Almost,” I said. “But I know what would make it better…”

“What?”

I pulled a box from my coat pocket and dropped to one knee. “…If you would be my wife.”

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