Make You Mine

Another seven months, and I’m rolling over on a mattress, it squeaking loudly as it protests my movements, while the dull thundering of multiple semi trailers and high pitched beeps of irritated drivers rounds out the accompaniment. It’s something I’ve gotten used to — the cacophony of sounds — in our Los Angeles apartment compared to the scraping of a single tumbleweed that was Nevada. Sometimes I miss our ranch style home: the bigger living space, the quieter surroundings, the white swing on the front porch (which is where we had sat when you returned, the slight creak of the rusty metal chains grinding against our ears as we pushed ourselves with our toes backwards and forwards). You had rescued the snake plant when we had come to Los Angeles; it was now the only plant on our small balcony, with only enough room for a round table and two chairs to join it.

The change of pace, of scenery, of noise pollution, was worth it, however, to sleep beside you again. To feel your soft skin on mine when I woke, to see your dark arms speckled with slightly darker freckles wrapped around me, your body cocooning mine as if to never let me go again. You were sleeping soundly, a light snore every now and again, just to reassure me that you really were here.

I may have been stupid to message you back almost instantly that fateful morning, to run back to you like a freediver stuck underwater too long, and rush upwards for oxygen, but that’s what you were to me: my personal oxygen source. More freeing and pure than a national forest, abundant with evergreen trees. We had exchanged messages for several days, before I bought a bus ticket to Los Angeles to see you. I had begged my step mother to look after Holly for a few days, and by the time I had come back a week earlier I was cancelling my rental lease, placing my two weeks’ notice and organising a U-Haul to take me, Holly and what few belongings would fit in your small apartment back to you.

My stupidity was worth it however, to be with you. You were much happier in Los Angeles; it was to you what you are to me. You seemed to breathe more deeply, have a bigger spring in your step when you were here. Upon seeing you on my first (and only) visit here, I had felt terrible for holding you back in Nevada, make you tie down to a place you loathed. I’m glad we had made things work here.

I heard your snoring stutter slightly and you shifted your arms off of me. I opened my eyes to see you opening yours, blinking the dirt out of them, a hand lifting up to aid in the process. “Good mornin’ darlin’,” I said, kissing you on the cheek. You smiled sleepily, murmuring a good morning back.

My Southern twang stood out in the city, but you had almost lost yours, not that you had had much of an accent to start with. Your voice had always been more mellow than mine. “What would ya like to do today?”

“I was thinking,” you paused to yawn, “a date? There’s a festival in town today, food trucks and the like.”

“That sounds perfect.”



We had gotten ready, sharing a shower while Holly mewed relentlessly at the door, even going so far as to stick a paw under the door to try and pry it open. You had played with my hair after I had put shampoo in it, trying to stick it up into a faux mohawk before it flopped over, heavy from its own weight.

You were in your favourite dress, the white one, with a cross body purse, while I dressed in a simple button down and jeans. The festival was a few blocks from our apartment, and we took advantage of the warm weather outside and walked there, hand in hand. Your hair was styled into an afro, with seemingly more bounce despite the humidity. You were walking on air today, and I liked it, you were sharing stories of your job — you were an arts educator, and had had several young school groups come through your gallery this week. Some of the children had amusing (to you) questions, and even more amusing comments, like a little girl who commented on Picasso’s Cubism paintings being “easy” and “just like mine at home!”

“Baby, look, there’s a few stalls here,” you said as we reached the festival, pulling me over to peruse the homemade goods. You made small talk with the stallholders, asking their techniques for cross stitching and knitting (which you have little experience with but were determined to try, as given by the yarn that sat in a basket in the lounge which Holly liked to toss around in the middle of the night). They gave you a few tips, and in return you bought a few small pieces: a few iron on patches and a loose cable knit scarf - for winter, silly, not now!



For lunch we bought a few small plates from various food trucks: one Italian place was selling a variety of arancini balls (we got classic spinach and parmesan ones, as well as mushroom and goat’s cheese), a few small beetroot pierogi (a Polish delicacy) and falafel with tzatziki dip. You were astonished I hadn’t tried falafel before, and hand fed me one, popping into my mouth whole. I had gasped from the heat of it, fanning my mouth with a hand as you laughed, trying to squeeze an apology out between giggles.

“I love you,” you said, kissing me after I managed to eat it without burning all of my tastebuds off.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” you replied, with another small laugh. Your eyes were twinkling with me, and I once again wished that I had been able to give you this happiness earlier.

“On that note,” you began, shifting in your seat on the bench we were sat at, “I have a question for you.”

“That doesn’t sound great,” I said, lifting an arancini ball to my mouth and biting it in half, letting some of the hot air escape the remaining part before eating it.

You took both of my hands in yours, thumbs rubbing over the backs of my hands. “You know I love you, Beth, I always have. And I can’t think of a reason not to love you forever.” I stopped eating, looking into your eyes, which were staring at me intently. “I know we’ve had our ups and downs and it’s taken us a while to get to here, but I do love you.”

Heart beating faster than it usually did, I voiced my nerves, “do you mean here as in this festival? ‘Cause it only took us thirty minutes darlin’.”

You playfully smacked one of my hands, before taking it again, “no, silly, here as in this place in our relationship. We’re both doing well at our jobs, our savings are at a point where we can look into buying an apartment.” I watched a smile grow on your face as you talked about out future together, certain that it would contain only good outcomes, unfazed by the possibility of more sour realities.

“It’s only missing one thing,” you said, one hand leaving mine to reach into your purse.

“And what would that be? Were you wantin’ more plants, ‘cause I can do more plants.” My words felt as though they were stumbling out of my mouth, as if my voice had hit several speed bumps.

“No.” You moved from the bench, settling in front of me on one knee with a small box that you had pulled out of your purse, “us, married. Beth, will you marry me?” You opened it, showing me the smooth silver band, without an imperfection in sight. My heart felt like it had stopped, but for the first time it wasn’t a bad response, it wasn’t how it had stopped when you told me you were leaving over a year ago, how it had stopped when you had texted me that you missed me and I thought you were only going to string me along to break my heart again, this heart-stop was somehow full of hope and I saw the future you had described, but this time not in smoke, like a pipe dream. It was tangible.

“Yes, darlin’, a million times yes.” I reached my arms down around your waist and pulled you to a standing position, my lips finding yours eagerly. You squirmed out of the kiss, which had squished your arms between us, and placed your arms around me, pulling me back into it. “I love you,” I said after a few moments, resting my forehead on yours.

“I love you too, baby,” you replied, “can I put this ring on you now?” I held out my left hand, and you took the ring from it’s place in the box and slid it on easily. 

“A perfect fit,” you remarked, as though impressed by your own detective work in finding out my ring size.

“Just like us.”

You laughed, “we’re stuck together now.”

“Like glue, darlin’. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”