On a grey slate boulder, set under a blossoming cherry tree, wait for her. She approaches from the west, in a tan suit, pink dress shirt, pearls. She has been meeting you here for lunch once a year for four years, the only concession to your previous time together. Otherwise you do not call her and neither does she ring you. At these times, you do not talk about your parents, the circumstances of your parting. She tells you of work, the neighborhood she lives in now, the ballroom dancing classes she started taking. Both of you smile over bento boxes and tea. After an hour, you take her hand and you say goodbye, till next year.

Today, as she approaches from the west, you will smile. You will take her hand immediately, and her left foot will step back, inadvertently crushing a fallen cherry blossom with her heel. "Will you marry me?", you will say, your voice croaking like a frog. She will blush, a fierce persimmon shade. Her eyelids are lowered, she is staring at your shoes. "Yes." She will whisper. You have to lean in closer to hear. "Yes." She says again. This time loud enough that a young boy playing hopscotch a few paces away will stop and turn, thinking that his mother has called his name.