He asked me to marry him on Mardi Gras.
Before, Mardi Gras was just another Tuesday. In the faraway state of Louisiana, revelers drank too much, flashed skin for beads, partied in raucous waves. I never paid attention, oblivious to the meaning of the day, the last great blowout before forty days of Lent-fueled deprivation.
We met at a restaurant. Hello and Hi led to a stood-up lunch (me to him), an actual lunch (yay), several months of games (him to me), and an epic New Years Eve kiss that lasted more than a day.
I should’ve known he’d ask me to marry him on a random holiday.
We met at the same restaurant to mourn its last day. I was late. He led me to the table where I sat when he uttered that first Hello. This time, he sat opposite me, together at the same two-top.
Tiffany-blue box between us. I should’ve seen it coming but I gaped, teared up, hyperventilated.
“Will you marry me?” He asked.
His hands shook with the ask, like he thought I might say anything but yes. I steadied them, linked fingers, and joined our lives on one messy, exhilarating ride. World travel everyone remarks upon. Bold, scary career changes that aren’t always what they seem. A doctor telling me he doesn’t know how long I’ll have quality of life.
My husband wasn’t making light when he murmured, “Do any of us know how long we’ve got?”
This Mardi Gras, I think I’ve finally learned to laissez bon temps rouler with each new breath. Another finished day with the man I love. Life is a gift.