“Nisha….what I was saying was….was….how do you feel….you know….about….” he closed his eyes and then he opened them again, “….about marriage?”
There. He’d said it again. Asked THE question.
Nisha looked at him and nodded and said:
“Well, I’ve always wanted to get married. I suppose. But nobody’s ever asked me. Ah well!”
She lifted her glass of champagne and clinked his half-filled glass with it. And then it struck him. Oh God. She hadn’t understood. He’d screwed it up again! He hadn’t asked her properly! “What do you feel about marriage?” What kind of question was that? What was he thinking of?
Right. He had one last bash left in him. So he gave it all he had.
“No, Nisha, what I mean is: Would you marry me?” He paused, and then for emphasis added: “What I’m saying is: Will you marry me?” He spelt it out further: “Will….you….marry….me?”
Silence ensued. Even the air-conditioning units seemed to go into a respectful hush.
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