I already know how I’d want you to propose to me, years from now- when we get this far. You’d tie a scarf over my eyes, lead me through a door, up a flight of stairs- slowly, because you wouldn’t be nervous, because I don’t make you nervous, because you know I’d say yes. You would lift me over the edge of a bathtub, put me in. You’d get in. There wouldn’t be any water in the tub, just us- fully clothed. I’m not sure if it would be night or day, it wouldn’t matter. The room would be filled with flowers and candles and you’d have bluegrass playing. You’d untie the scarf from over my eyes, hold both my hands in both of yours and ask if I knew where we were. It would be the bathtub we had our first date in- when we snuck into a house under construction and sat in that a bathtub on the top floor for an hour or two, just talking. The house would be fully built by then, fully lived in- you’d speak to them days before, weeks before and you’d be so sweet, as you always are, that they would want to help arrange the flowers, clean the tub. You’d take out a ring- not a traditional one, nothing too expensive, but carefully chosen. And then you’d ask me somehow- the words aren’t important, but I know you would have gone over a thousand ways as to how to word it for me. I’d probably be crying by now, if not already- smiling, nodding, wanting to marry you.