Last Friday Night

Our new restaurant of choice is the recently opened 715. I've still not heard if its proper name is seven-fifteen or seven-one-five; I've opted for the most literal: seven-hundred-and-fifteen. We arrived early Friday night, around 6:30, to beat the crowd, and were promptly seated near the door. A half-liter of the cheap white house wine. For the lady, a simple green salad featuring goat cheese and five thin radish slices, followed by potato tortelli with local bison ragu. I enjoyed the special -- a pan-seared, wild-caught striped bass over broccoli and calabrian chiles -- more than any fish I've ever eaten outside of Oregon.

Despite the allure of the after-dinner drink menu's hot apple cider Tuaca, I convinced Kim to join me for a vanilla vodka and Coke at Henry's Upstairs. Walking along Massachusetts Street, already discussing her dad via an unrelated thing, I told her what he said on the day after Thanksgiving, when I asked his permission to propose.

"Sure."

Her father shared one additional, deceptively simple sentence: "Just make her happy." I apologized for my lack of plans or timeline, and returned to silently chopping vegetables for the turkey soup.

I told Kim all this -- by now we'd trekked to our nearly empty destination, climbed the stairs, accepted our drinks, and sat at the same table where I'd first held her hand -- and I told her how happy she made me, and I asked her to marry me. It took a few moments to convince her to open the box in my left hand instead of looking at it, and me, and smiling.