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— get out of my life, and never contact me again.
Only that’s not what he says. That isn’t what he says at all.
Instead, for some reason, he’s sunk down onto one knee, in front of the closed bridal shop, and the lady across the street walking her dog, and the guy in the minivan looking for a parking space, and the entire population of East Seventy-eighth Street.
And though I can’t believe what I’m seeing, and I’m positive my tired, hungover eyes are playing tricks on me, he’s pulled from his pocket a black velvet box, which he opens to reveal a diamond solitaire that glistens in the morning light.
No. No, that’s really what he’s doing. And there are words coming out of his mouth. And those words are:
“Lizzie Nichols, will you marry me?”