Time.

Time had been a cheeky little bastard again, sneaking past without us noticing.

This was our sixth year living together. We'd lasted six fucking years as best friends. Lovers. Partners.

Yet again, so much had changed. You'd quit your day job and were a full-time artist now, all with an online shop and a website and merch and everything. I no longer worked at Walmart, fortunate enough to be pursuing my passion as the Maître Pâtissier for a critically acclaimed, family-owned gourmet restaurant. You always insisted it was talent, but I believed it was also the good luck you brought me. Mimi, too, found a playmate and close companionship in Jellybean – a cuddle-bug of a dachshund and our newest adoptee. The four of us made a happy, well-rounded unit.

And I was ready to officiate it. Cement it.

Patting the box in my pocket, its determined weight digging into my thigh, I willed my nerves to settle down, and took your hand. Gently squeezing, I questioned, "are you ready?"

Your gaze remained stuck to the wall – the Goliath to your David – and your brow furrowed in worry. "I'm scared," you ultimately replied, meeting my eyes, "I've never painted anything so massive."

"Doesn't mean you can't," I countered. "Breathe, Solé. Think of it as trying out a new canvas."

"People are watching me."

"No, it's just you and me and your paints and that wall."

Letting free a nervous warble, you stepped closer to the wall, your hand sliding from mine as I stayed behind. You scoped the white space out, craning your neck, you tested the podium ladder with your weight, and then returned to my side, muttering, "a new canvas... what do I make here?"

"Start the priming and underpainting at least," I suggested, hoisting a tin of yellowish-beige paint onto the tall table. Wedging the end of a steel ruler under the lid, I popped it open. I waved a flatbrush at you, beckoning, "c'mere, breathe, and set yourself free. You've got this."

Your frown smoothened into an adoring smile that warmed my insides. Skipping to me, you bent to my level, stole a kiss, thanked me for the brush, and faced the wall once more. This time, confidence squared your shoulders, your artsy verve adding a bounce to your step.

Wheeling to the pile of cartons we'd brought, I unpacked veneers and spray paints and other supplies, laying them out for your easy access. I followed you around, passing on tools and colors as you asked for them, helping wherever I could. Forms and details gained substance across the surface as you cascaded from one end to the other, paint smattering into your gray overalls.

You were a part of the artist collective chosen by the City Council for an ongoing art project. I was overjoyed that you were finally getting the recognition and platform you deserved. This was the beginning of your big break, and I was absolutely looking forward to taking this route to accost anybody I found admiring your mural, boasting, "my partner made that."

A couple hours passed as you progressed halfway through the piece. Climbing down the ladder, you stood beside me to scrutinize your work. A tired exhale pushed out of you and you tipped your head back, face turned to the sky, complaining, "why is it so bland?"

"What're you talking about?" I demanded incredulously, searching for what the fuck looked bland to you in the spell you'd casted on the wall. I stared at the fiery hummingbird sipping from an amethyst geode blossom in wonder; your mural was far from bland. It was a symphony of hues and a synchronicity of details – a visual thaumaturgy. Enamored, I felt around for you and managed to intertwine our fingers together to get your attention. "How is this bland?"

"I dunno." You glanced at me and sighed. Lifting your free hand, you gestured vaguely at the bird. "Just... just feels like it's missing something..."

A lightbulb flashed on in my mind then. "I'm no artist..." I started, wheeling to where the supplies were spread. Picking up the satchel I needed, I fished out the pearlescent acrylics – your favorite ever since I'd first gifted you a set five years ago – and continued, "but if you want to add some razzle dazzle to that masterpiece, here..."

Your eyebrows – now dyed pink – climbed and your jaw dropped. Reverently taking the rectangular steel case, you thanked me with a peck on my mouth. "You're amazing, Viktor."

I curtsied. Well, as much as I could while seated.

Another hour went by before you stepped off the podium ladder with finality. You paced a few steps backwards, eyes steady on your mural. I wheeled forward and stopped next to you. You asked, "how is it?"

I released a short, awestruck laugh. "Majestic. I usually have more words but I'm... I'm kinda speechless at the moment."

You flew at me in an ardent embrace. "I. Fucking. Love. You," you professed, punctuating each word in kisses that you peppered all over me.

That was all the encouragement, all the reassurance, that I needed. This was it. You were happy, I was happy, we stood in one of the most beautiful gardens in town, in front of your largest, proudest piece – this was my moment. I reached into the pocket of my shorts and produced the carved and etched pinewood box, opening it to you. Two oxidized gold bands sat in green velvets. "I love you, Solé. So much. You've had my very soul since I first saw you, and now I know, I want to be yours."

"Viktor..." Your fingers bunched into fists and rested on your sternum as though defending your heart against a prospective assault.

You receded, and that tiny movement flared volcanic panic in me, so I hurried. "I'm yours for as long as we last. I'm yours until fate deems that we're better off apart. Even then I will fight tooth and nail to be yours... Solé, I—"

"Viktor—"

Shaking my head, I begged, "no, please, listen. Know that you have every right and freedom to step away if I'm asking for too much. I will still love you as I do now, I promise. But Solé, I also need you to know that I'm yours and, if you accept me, I want something physical and material to stand for it, and—and engagement rings were the only—"

"Viktor, I..."

"I'm yours..." I waited, but when you held your words behind your teeth closing in on your lower lips, I ploughed on. "If you'll have me."

Your gaze flitted from the rings to my eyes. Drawing close, you carefully plucked the larger of the two bands and said, softly, surely, "nothing would make me happier." 

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