Last Call

The gray road splits perfectly before me. All I can do is stare at the diverging paths, as the first few flakes of snowfall melt against my windshield. It’s the first snow fall of the season - I know that logically.

But in my heart, it feels like the signal to the last day of life as I know it - no matter which road I choose to follow. 

With my hands still clawed around the steering wheel, I can feel the black, velvet box resting patiently in my pocket. It’s as heavy as a small chuck of lead, despite the lightness of the dazzling diamond nestled deeply within. It is perfect in every way I ever imagined: 

The shape, the size, the sliver of white-gold that conforms perfectly to my finger. 

It’s a feat that still surprises me, so many days after “the big day”:  

I never once described this precious dream of mine - and yet, like a magician, he somehow manifested it.

His question still echoes in my ear, and somehow louder in his absence… 

When he first asked me, his voice was so soft I could barely hear him, despite the sudden silence of the restaurant. 

The screech of his chair echoed loudly around us, and before I knew it the clinking and clattering of dinner-dishes disappeared as his knee hit the ground. 

As he gingerly held the little box with both hands I still couldn’t comprehend what was happening.

He asked again, this time louder, and the world around us held its breath as it waited for my reply…

The question still sits before me - stymied only by a tiny, black seed of doubt:

Yes, he brought one dream to life. But what about the others: 

To climb the mountains of Scotland?

To open my art school for the next generation?  

To finally paint my masterpiece, and see it forever immortalized?

These dreams and more he knows very well - we’ve spent many nights discussing them until the sunrise interrupted us. 

But the one dream he made manifest was the only one we’ve ever discussed over a single lunch date. 

His dream of three children “right off the bat” was only ever mentioned in just as many talks. 

His vision of opening his restaurant is one he’s described since the dawn of our relationship; in full technicolor, so real and so beautiful it takes your breath away. 

But in my heart I know it’s a risky business, even for the most talented cooks -  

A concern he’s always waved away.

And three children has always been three too many for someone like me (who can barely keep a cactus alive). 

A “humble-brag” he assures me is probably not very true…

I know I’m not as young as I used to be. Everyone has told me that at length. 

I know my looks won’t last forever. Everyone has also pointed that out at length…

I glance to the trees on my left, where the road dives away into a perfectly smooth ribbon: there, they are alive, vital, with a legacy of a fresh forest awaiting for the future. 

I glance to the open space on my right, where the road dips and curves and juts in every direction of a vast future that dissipates into the horizon: the trees here are dying, some marked for death by orange squares nailed to their trunks. 

But beyond that horizon - an empty space as wide and open as a blank canvas - who knows what’s just waiting to be found..? 

Suddenly I am back at our first date:

“Hey, guys,” says the bartender, leaning towards us over the freshly polished counter, “last call for the night.”

We glanced around the dive-bar, surprised to see that we were the only ones left. We both lost track of time, our intoxication aroused not by the booze but rather by the company.

“Last call, indeed,” I mutter to myself, throwing the car into drive. 

Suddenly the little box feels weightless as I take off down the road. 

I have my choice.