My Untimely Proposal to Annie by Aaron Milavec Unexpected Romance writing prompt entry |
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Even today, I can close my eyes and mentally see the mischievous glint in her eyes as she bated me with her very first words, "Ah, I can see that you are the man of the house. Can I sit with you here?" I have to admit that it was flattering that she had filled her cafeteria tray and, glancing over the dozen booths humming with human conversation, that she had selected not my table but me! I was conscious that she was, at least for the moment, ignoring the two coeds with whom I had been speaking, and directing her attention exclusively toward me. Given her natural and unostentatious beauty, I was acutely aware that she threw out a challenge toward me when she playfully dubbed me as "the man of the house." "Hey, I may be the only man here," I spontaneously replied, "but I hardly consider myself the man of the house. But if you'd like some engaging dinner conversation, you've come to the right table. Please join us." Then I proceeded to introduce her to the two coeds that I had met less than ten minutes ago. The light banter within our ensuing exchanges was the gift of her presence. The two coeds left after about twenty minutes, but Annie and I continued our engaging conversation for a solid hour. She spoke to me about her art. She showed me the traces of poster-board paint that she had accidentally flicked on her white blouse. She told me about her admiration for Sr. Coretta Kent who was the pioneer and promoter of a craze for supporting personal and world change through her provocative words that dominated her art. My Untimely Proposal As our lively exchanges continued, it occurred to me that here was the woman that I dearly wanted to join me in the adventure that I had planned for myself, namely, to hitchhike into Baja Mexico and spend two days exploring the landscape and the people. I had discovered on many occasions that hitchhiking was the perfectly natural and extraordinarily gifted way to meet strangers and to transform them into friends. Now that I was located three hundred miles from the Mexican border, I wanted to use the long weekend coming up to have this adventure for myself. In talking with Annie, however, I quickly realized that having her with me would raise the adventure that I was planning to the nth degree. So, after an hour, I spoke to her about the adventure that I was planning and I asked her to be my "cherished companion on the quest for an intimate, up-close experience of Mexican culture." She politely declined, "To be sure, your proposal sounds so inviting . . . but I have a dozen art projects in progress and need to finish at least half of them this weekend or else I will be totally swamped during the coming weeks." "O.K. I can hear what you are saying. You're heavily invested in your art and feel overwhelmed by your need to finish some works in progress. I'm not an artist myself, but I have an artist friend who once told me that she needs to recharge her artistic batteries ever so often by expanding her life experiences. . . ." So, in effect, I was trying to appeal to Annie's self-identity as an overburdened artist. I honestly flinch; however, when I register how absurd it must have appeared that a female artist would speak of her "artistic batteries." This is a man's metaphor. I admit that I made it up on the fly. I got its substance, however, from my reading of Karl Stern's Flight from Woman (1964) some years earlier. Happily, Annie didn't challenge me on my awkward metaphor. She agreed to give herself a day to think it over and to let me know what she decides. The next evening she cornered me and said very demurely, "I'd very much like to go." Yahoo! Her positive reply sent my blood racing. We've known each other only for a little less than two hours of contact time. I felt for sure that she would turn me down. Even in my own eyes, my proposal was way too forward and even a bit indecent. So her very positive "yes" sends my heart sailing! I'm so wound up at bedtime that I am unable to sleep. I don't have a beer to drink and nowhere to warm up a cup of milk either. Either one of these is my usual cures for sleeplessness. So I lie in a totally darkened room and think fondly of Annie. On the Road with Annie Annie did not have any experience as a hitch-hiker, so I had to step up to the plate here. I suggested that we travel ultra-light and dress casual but not in jeans or tennis shoes. Annie chose a lovely summer dress, pure white with a small smattering of colored flower patterns. I dressed in a white, short-sleeve shirt and khaki-colored dress pants. As a couple, we made a real hit on the side of the highway. Annie carried her "fancy colors" sign that boldly announced "Baja Mexico" as our destination. I stood behind her and frequently pressed my chest against her back and gently wrapped my arms around her waist—a formula that got signs of approval from nearly all of those who drove by. So why then didn't they pick us up? Either because they had no room in their car, were in a rush, or were only going a short distance. So much the better. . . . We were waiting for the long ride that takes us out of the congested matrix of highways that crisscrossed the city of Los Angeles. To begin with, hitch-hiking on the freeway was against the law and well it should be. Pulling over onto the shoulder of the highway when traveling sixty mph in tight traffic was a dangerous feat. Hence we had no choice but to position ourselves near the entrance ramp at a place where motorists could safely pull over at low speeds and not get rear-ended when they pick us up. At 14:50, we arrived at Huntington Beach. We had traveled eighty miles and decided to give ourselves twenty minutes to relax. Annie explained to me that Huntington Beach has the reputation of being "Surf City USA" and that this was where the mellow California beach culture found its best expression. We raced to the water's edge. Then we took off our shoes and socks and walked hand-in-hand on the wet sand that bordered the ocean. Spindly-legged sandpipers dodged in and out seeking an afternoon snack as the gentle waves followed their customary rhythm, breaking gently on the beach and then receding. This was the hottest part of the day, and the bronzed sun worshippers were out in great numbers.  This is the second great moment that I need only to close my eyes to remember. Annie was holding my hand and making soft squeals of delight whenever the incoming cold waters of the Pacific caught her off guard and slid over her exposed ankles. But, just then, an enormous wave of sadness rushed over my heartstrings as I felt the weight of all the times when I felt so utterly alone on beaches just like this."But not today," I explained to Annie. "Today I am supremely happy to be here walking the beach holding the hand of 'my girl.'" Later, while we are sipping our cool water, Annie writes into our log book: "Huntington Beach. Our time flew! Aaron tells me: 'It's good to hold hands with my girl while walking together on the beach'." I notice this, and it delights me. So my forward language has not been a turnoff. I gain confidence that I can tell Annie anything and do anything, and all will be well received by "my girl." So I put this assurance to the test right away. As we get ready to hit the road again, I suggest to Annie that "it would be nice to create a ritual of face touching by way of celebrating our togetherness." She agrees. So we find a huge, sun-bleached driftwood log and sit facing each other with our knees touching. Annie begins by closing her eyes, and I tap her face all over and then close my eyes and proceed to sculpture her face with my fingers. I am struck by the incredible smoothness of her skin and the sensuous feel of her lips. I imagine myself as eventually kissing these lips. . . . Once I finish, I close my eyes and experience Annie tapping and sculpturing my face. She takes this in a new direction by rubbing my skin with her finger tips. This takes about two minutes. When finished, we both lean forward and spontaneously give each other a long hug. We feel no need to talk about our experience. The ritual itself serves to be our silent language of communication. Sometimes words get in the way. Our next ride takes us fifty miles to Laguna Beach. Annie writes in our log: "Two chicks brought us here to trippy Laguna Beach. P.S.: I love you. We've got to come back to see the shops and the galleries." My heart is racing! "We've got to come back" tells me that Annie anticipates spending time with me in her future. "I love you" tells me that we have just leaped over "the friend zone." Yowzer!
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Aaron Milavec
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