Millions of Women Are Waiting to Meet You (2 of 3 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
Millions of Women Are Waiting to Meet You by Sean Thomas. Copyright 2006 by Sean Thomas.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

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INTRODUCTION (CONT'D)

There's no choice. I've got to build up to it slowly. Start again.

Going over to Claire I smile, and kiss her on the neck. Then I pull back and tuck some stray blonde hair behind her ear, in a vaguely soppy way. I say something in a low whisper. We laugh. I can feel the moment swaying towards me once more, across the disco floor of life. So I take a deep breath and I look at Claire. Her eyes are shiny and languid in the night; the champagne is giving her golden hiccups.

"Claire . . . ?"

I have adopted a profound, wise, and loving expression; the look of a man you can trust, in a lifelong kind of way. Claire squints at me.

"Yep? What is it, babe?"

" . . . Claire, I've been wondering . . . "

Her eyes widen.

"Yes?"

"And, well . . . "

I let the words hang in the air, like the scent of flowers in a warm, moonlit garden. I am aiming to get my timing right. So I pause for a few more seconds and then I think about opening my mouth. It's going to happen. I'm going to say these words for the first--and hopefully the only--time in my life; I am going to say the words that will change our lives, that will commit us, that will ennoble our love and deepen our affection. And so I lean forward and I extend a hand and I open my mouth and Claire says:

"Shall we get pizza?"

I stare. She adds:

"Oh, sorry. You want Thai, right?"

My mouth shuts. I nod and sigh. Then I turn away and walk across the roof terrace and sit on the ledge that overlooks the road. Claire puts a hand to her mouth and says:

"Sorry, darling. You were gonna say something?"

"Oh, no . . . "

"No. You were. What?"

"Oh . . . you know . . . Just thinking . . . maybe we could rent a DVD or something."

Claire tilts her blonde, pretty, smart, twenty-nine-year-old Scottish head.

" . . . at midnight?"

She is skeptically drinking her champagne, with her arms crossed. I watch her sip that delicately tilted flute. I watch her sigh with contentment in the warm summer air. Then she peers across the Bloomsbury rooftops and with a giggle she says, "I forgot you can see the British Museum from here!" After that she wanders airily over in her nice sexy dress and she sits down close to me.

There is something odd and superior about Claire's demeanor this evening. It is as if . . . she knows something, senses something. While I listen to the late-night drinkers whooping in my road, I wonder if sweet Claire senses what I am trying to do. Could it be? Maybe it's her female intuition? Or maybe I'm being obvious? We've been going out a year and two months: is that when men always propose? Leaning forward, I stare at the gravel of my primitive "roof terrace." Then I get another ardent and surprising urge: to get down on one knee. Perhaps if I did that it would be obvious what I was trying to do and then Claire might help me out by just saying yes before I even have to produce the difficult words, the no-going-back statement. But getting down on one knee seems over-the-top and clichéd. Why is it only one knee, anyway? Why not two? Is that to stop you from falling over? If only I had a ring to hand across. That would give me a prop. Yes. Maybe I should have bought a ring.
Or maybe I should have got that T-shirt with "Will You Marry Me?" stenciled across it. Or . . . or maybe I should have got married years ago.

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