I was kneeling on one knee holding a ring in front of an empty chair at a crowded restaurant.
The normal buzz of conversation had ceased in the area around me almost as if all sound had been sucked out of the room.
Every eye in the place around my table was on me, most displaying abject pity, with several people's jaws wide open in shock.
"Well, that didn't exactly go as planned," I said quietly to no one in particular as I rose to my feet, put the ring back in my pocket and then sat back down in my seat opposite the empty chair.
"Uh, could I have another, a double please," I added as I held up my empty glass of Woodford Reserve.
I could feel every eye in my section of the restaurant upon me. My field of vision had shrunk to a small window.
I suppose things could have been worse. The restaurant could have gotten sucked into a giant sinkhole... or another dimension.
"Here's your Woodford, sir," a disembodied voice said as a glass of bourbon over ice showed up magically on my table.
"Th-thank you," I mumbled as sound suddenly restarted in our area.
I lifted the glass of bourbon and took a big sip, comforted by the smooth burn of the liquid as it reached my stomach. Smooooth, with three or four of the letter "o" in the middle. I guess the day wasn't going to be a total loss.
I put the bourbon down and picked up the remainder of my steak sandwich. I looked across the table to the half-eaten Cobb salad sitting in front of the now empty seat. I took a wild guess that the most-recent occupant of that seat wasn't coming back to finish her meal.
The disembodied voice was back, telling me that a new drink it had put down on my table was courtesy of the two businessmen who were sitting somewhere to my right. I turned my head in that direction and nodded blankly, not focusing on my benefactors.
"That was pretty cold man. We're sorry," came a voice from the table.
"Thanks. I appreciate that," I responded quietly without looking at them.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. How could a day that was supposed to include a signature moment in my life go so wrong? She was supposed to say yes when I popped the question, maybe burst out in tears; not yell, "Oh no," jump up and run from the restaurant crying.
Somehow, another bourbon showed up at my table. I nodded and raised my hand, trying to indicate a friendly gesture at whoever sent this one over.
How could I have missed the mark so badly? I sipped some more.
******
Traci Proehl appeared to be perfection from the first time I saw her on the campus of The Ohio State University in the fall of my senior year. I was playing Frisbee with several friends in an open grass area when this dark-haired goddess and three other pretty girls walked past on the way to class. It was a warm fall day, and she was wearing a tight white crop top with a low "V" front, and skintight short jean shorts. She was my definition of a walking wet dream.
I had just done a behind-the-back catch and was about to release a throw back to one of the guys when I spotted her. I'm pretty sure I sprained my tongue drooling as I watched her walk past.
"You'd better make sure to wipe off the spit before you throw that thing back," Harry Davidson yelled to me, breaking me from my indecent reverie of the moment.
I heard the girls titter, blushed a bit and fired a laser bolt back right at Harry's smart mouth.
None of the girls in the group was less than an eight on a 10-point scale. While I never lacked for confidence, I knew I was no more than a seven. I was athletic but not heavily muscled at 6-foot, 170 pounds. I was okay looking, I thought, with big brown eyes and a mop of curly shoulder-length dark brown hair that never did the same thing two days in a row.
I know I should have let the four keep walking, but at that point the little brain was doing all the thinking. I trotted over to the group, introduced myself--Jake Arnett, by the way--and asked for a date with the goddess of my dreams.
"How long have you problems communicating with girls, Mr. Arnett?" asked the tall blonde standing next to my goddess.
"Never done this before, but, what the hell, nothing ventured, nothing gained," I said doing my best Mr. Cliché impression.
The goddess blushed deep red. Her big green eyes seemed to get wider. Then the most amazing thing happened. She smiled and said yes. I somehow resisted the urge to jump up and down and do my best touchdown dance.
"You can't be serious, Traci. This yahoo doesn't look he can afford a haircut, let alone a date," commented the short brunette with the pixie cut.
I know I glared at the one who spoke, but held my tongue. I was smart enough to know that you should never insult a member of a girl's inner circle if you expect to get close to said girl.
We set the date for the next Friday.
I was absolutely thrilled to have a date with this goddess, but I was realistic. Once was a miracle that would never be repeated, so I might as well enjoy my time with her. I told her to dress casual. I took her to play miniature golf, then we went go-karting. Our meal was at my favorite soul-food hangout, a place I'd bet she had never been in before, and probably never would have if it weren't for me.
I waited a week before I asked her out a second time, anticipating a rejection... and was shocked, to say the least, when she said yes again.
A second date led to a third, and a few weeks later we were a confirmed couple. We had sex on our sixth date, and I found out that night I was only her second partner. Her first had been her high school sweetheart, who she had been with for six years until he unceremoniously dumped her three months before I came along.
I was her first boyfriend since her ex blew her off and quickly left town with the daughter of a rich man. She told me she was devastated when the boyfriend vanished because they were talking marriage.
She did seem a little skittish with me at first, but by the time we graduated seven months later, I would have said she was completely over him. In fact, we moved in together after we both got jobs in the same city after graduation.
