Emily ran her hands down the black silky material of her dress, smoothing out the creases for what must have been the hundredth time that night.
"You seem nervous," Ben said. "You've barely touched your food."
Her eyes darted down to the half-eaten chicken on her plate, then back up at Ben, who sat across from her at the beautifully laden dinner table, his face lit by candlelight. For their seven-year anniversary, he'd taken her to the most romantic restaurant in New York.
Of course she was nervous.
Especially since the small Tiffany's box she'd found hidden in his sock drawer weeks before had not been there when she'd checked that evening. She felt certain that tonight was the night he would finally propose.
The thought made her heart hammer with anticipation.
"I'm just not that hungry," she replied.
"Oh," Ben said, looking slightly perturbed. "Does that mean you won't be wanting any dessert? I've had my eye on the salted-butterscotch mousse."
She most certainly didn't want dessert, but she had a sudden fear that perhaps Ben had hidden the ring in the mousse. It would be a corny way to propose, but by now, she would take any way at all. To say Ben was afraid of commitment was an understatement. It had taken two years of dating before he'd even been okay with her leaving her toothbrush at his apartment-and four years before he finally decided she could move in.
If she so much as mentioned children, he turned as white as a sheet.
"Please, order the mousse if you want," she said. "I've still got my glass of wine."
Ben gave a small shrug, then called over the waiter, who swiftly removed his empty plate and her half-eaten chicken.
Ben stretched his hands out and took both of hers in his.
"Did I tell you you look beautiful tonight?" he asked.
"Not yet," she said, smiling slyly.
He smiled in return. "In that case, you look beautiful."
Then he reached into his pocket.
Her heart seemed to stop beating. This was it. It was really happening. All those years of anguish, of Buddhist-monk-level patience, were about to finally pay off. She was about to prove her mother wrong, her mother who seemed to revel in telling Emily that she'd never get a man like Ben down the aisle. Not to mention her best friend, Amy, who had recently developed the tendency after one glass of wine too many to start imploring Emily not to waste any more time on Ben because thirty-five definitely wasn't "too old to find true love."
She swallowed the lump in her throat as Ben pulled the Tiffany's box out of his pocket and slid it across the table toward her.
"What's this?" she managed to say.
"Open it," he replied with a grin.
He wasn't bending down on one knee, Emily noted, but that was fine. She didn't need it to be traditional. She just needed a ring. Any ring would do.
She picked up the box, opened it-then frowned.
"What…the hell…?" she stammered.
She stared at it in shock. It was a one-ounce bottle of perfume.
Ben grinned, as if thrilled with his handiwork.
"I didn't realize they sold perfume either," Ben replied. "I thought they just sold overpriced jewelry. Want me to spray you?"
Suddenly unable to contain her emotions, Emily broke down in tears. All her hopes came crashing down around her. She felt like an idiot for even letting herself think he might be proposing tonight.
"Why are you crying?" Ben said, frowning, suddenly aggrieved. "People are looking."
"I thought…" Emily stammered, dabbing her eyes with the table cloth, "with the restaurant, and it being our anniversary…" She was unable to get her words out.
"Yes," Ben said, coolly. "It's our anniversary and I bought you a present. I'm sorry if it wasn't good enough, but you didn't get me one at all."
"I thought you were going to propose!" Emily finally cried, throwing her napkin down on the table.
The hum in the room stopped as people stopped eating and turned and stared at her. She no longer cared.
Ben's eyes widened with fear. He looked even more scared than he did when she mentioned the possibility of starting a family.
"What do you want to get married for?" he said.
Emily was hit by a moment of clarity. She looked at him as though seeing him for the first time. Ben would never change. He would never commit. Her mother, Amy, they'd both been right. She'd spent years waiting for something that was so obviously never going to happen, and this miniature bottle of perfume had been the straw to break the camel's back.
"It's over," Emily said, breathlessly, her tears suddenly stopped. "It's really over."
"Are you drunk?" Ben cried incredulously. "First you want to get married-and now you want to break up?"
"No," Emily said. "I'm just not blind anymore. This-you, me-it was never right." She stood up, discarding her napkin in her seat. "I'm moving out," she said. "I'll stay at Amy's tonight, then fetch my things tomorrow."
"Emily," Ben said, reaching for her. "Can we please talk about this?"
"Why?" she shot back. "So you can convince me to wait another seven years before we buy our own home? Another decade before we get a joint bank account? Seventeen years before you so much as consider the thought of getting a cat together?"
"Please," Ben said under his breath, looking at the approaching waiter carrying his dessert. "You're making a scene."
Emily knew she was but she didn't care. She wasn't about to change her mind.
"There's nothing left to talk about," she said. "It's over. Enjoy your salted-butterscotch mousse!"
And with those final words, she stormed out of the restaurant.
