An Angry Proposal

An Angry Proposal

It was October 19, 1997 and the Smoky Mountain town of Gatlinburg, Tennessee was being soaked by rain. The rain was coming down so hard the colored fall leaves fell to the ground like daggers. My boyfriend John and I were on our first get away after divorcing my first husband. John and I had a relationship for four years prior to my marriage. We had been in Gatlinburg for four days and were scheduled to leave in the morning. John would be staying in the woods with the bears if something didn’t happen soon. I came here with one expectation; my finger would be weighted down with a diamond by the end. We were at a crossroad with our relationship and a commitment needed to be made.

Weeks went into planning this trip; I booked a mountain vacation home for us to enjoy. This house had four bedrooms, five bathrooms and both an indoor and outdoor hot tub. The inside was furnished with blankets that will wrap around two people as the fire crackles in the living room. We enjoyed every inch of this house during our stay. In the mornings we ate breakfast on the wrap around cedar porch where only the wildlife thirty feet below was in our view. When we gazed at the sky, the trees surrounding us look as if they were touching the stars. Crickets sang all night and occasionally a banging and rustling could be heard from the bears trying to break into the garbage bins. We spent our days in the town or driving through the mountain passes finding primitive wooded areas to take romantic hikes. John and I didn’t care if we saw any people on this trip.

On this particular evening I wanted to do something special to help John get the hint. We stopped at the local supermarket, which also served as the local pizza place, gas station and medical clinic. The owners must be familiar with women like me; the store was no bigger than my apartment and they only carried essentials for survival. In the corner there was a small glass fridge stocked with wine, steak and lobster tails. These would be crucial items; John would need this last supper if something didn’t happen. Dinner was well on its way so I snuck into the bedroom to change into something more appealing. John stood at the granite fireplace holding two glasses of champagne. It was a good start. The fireplace and the candles painted the room in shades of red and orange and cast dancers on the ceiling.

A CD containing Eighties love music played in the background during dinner. It was cheesy listening to Duran Duran and Rick Springfield, but it was better than the Rolling Stones. We did more kissing and cuddling than eating which was a good sign, so I thought. Dessert was served and there was no diamond hiding in the cake; it is obviously in the mountain still.

Patience was never a strong quality and I wasn’t going to learn it this late in my life. Sitting on the blue velvet couch, I had John in the position for the talk.

“I need to know what our future is.” My face is blushing and the room is getting hotter.

“You know I love you honey, I want to be with you.” This is supposed to satisfy