“Darling, you know well I love every inch of you,” holding her whitish hand, “and I want nothing less than to spend the rest of my days with you.”
She sucks in her lower lip in childlike captivation.
I dip my right hand into my suit, hunkering on one knee. She gasps, glee erupting out of the well of her dimples.
Then my hand emerges with a cute little box.
“Sweetheart, would you promise to wear it always—especially this harmattan time?”
A vaseline container.
If looks could kill, I should summarily be cremated under the radiation of her fiery glare.