Like we’re in this burgeoning thing together.
After we solve the clue, and return to Central Park, we discuss important matters like pizza.
“You’re really telling me you’d just lift your pizza?” I mime eating a slice, flat as a board.
“That’s how we do it down under,” she says with a cute little shrug.
“And I don’t fold it when I visit my grandparents in Mexico City,” I say. “But we’re New Yorkers now. We gotta fold it. That’s how we do it here.”
She laughs, and smiles, and all her resistance seems to have flown out the window. “I assure you, the lift works just fine for a slice.”
But just to be sure that the hurdles are gone, I seize my chance: “Let me prove the fold is better. I’ll take you out to get pizza and prove it.”
She nibbles on the corner of her lips. “Fine. You can prove it.”
I thrust my arm in the air. “It’s a date. It’s a date, right?”
She grabs me by the shirt collar, looks me square in the eyes, and says in that accent that kills me, “It better be a date.”
Then she brushes a kiss to my lips, and I’m over and out.
Make that done for when she lets go, and says, “You’re mine and I’m not letting you go.”
There is no way I’m ever letting her get away.
A few months later, I ask her to marry me and she says yes.
The lesson? Persistence pays off.
Love is a marathon, and you have to run every mile. You have to run every mile every damn day.
And since optimism is my strong suit, I’m always up for the marathon of love.