He and she walked along East 70th street toward Central Park. She noticed a lovely building. She likes lovely buildings. She was surprised to discover they'd apparently stumbled inadvertently upon a famous art collection that she had been hoping to see. "Frick!" she said. He enjoyed Rembrandt's self portrait. She most liked Turner's Venetian masterpieces. He most liked her.  They relaxed together in peace.  That is, until people snapped, clicked, and flashed their photo-image makers, and a broad-shouldered, beastly-tough security guard sternly vomited out her rebukes and disapproval against such insolent rebellion. The couple moved on. Crossing Fifth Avenue, they entered the utopian world of Central Park.  Children played with toy sailing boats, and were happy. He and she were also happy. They neared the boathouse. Cash bulged in my jeans pocket. He began scanning the waterfront for ghastly yellow buoyancy vests, ill-fitting a gaggle of tourists pretending to be Sunday boaters, and for countless children surrounding some teen-aged pied piper soon to be forced into the water, and for some grumpy grey man discontentedly filling his pockets with green bills as he rations out war-time allotments of fresh city air and 60 minute-sunburns.  "Plan A for Atrium" in the Frick was pretty lame and lazy anyway. If the Frick wasn't the spot to propose, "Plan B for Boat" will surely work.  One of them soon appeared relieved, the other a little disappointed, to view the boat rental queue  stretching out past Central Park West, across the bridge into New Jersey, over to California. To him it appeared to go out across the pacific ocean, but it may have been a mirage, or some other optical illusion. A good pilot always has more than one contingency plan, and since his father is Mr Murphy, namesake of Murphy's Law, he remained calm and continued towards Plan C. While he was thinking about serving her, and valuing her above all other people, for the rest of his life, and asking her permission to wed, he did not know exactly what had overtaken her thoughts. Though, he was fairly certain she was thinking about her new, American love  A famous landmark of New York's Central Park is the Bethesda Fountain.  He finds it stunning. Some time before this sunny Sunday he met with his friend. They agreed: it is wonderful.  In fact, this devoted friend, in careful preparation for their meeting, had gone to the trouble of consulting some fine ladies of New York city, who are in the know regarding such things as romance and beauty.  Everyone seemed to agree, proposing while gently rowing past the angel, or even just under the watchful eye of the Bethesda Angel, was truly romantic. Plan C was in effect. Third time lucky. The perfect spot to confess his love. He held her hand. He spoke gently into her ear. He smiled softly. His heart was at peace. He was so glad to be with the love of his life. She was glad to be visiting her love, in America. She had seen some of the finest art in the world. She knew what this experience meant to her. She smelt a sweet aroma; a delightful scent. She visualized the one thing that would fulfill the desires of her heart. She began dreaming of this event, a new thing, never before experienced, only previously a fantasy to her. This would be the full American experience; making up for the lost energy spent wandering around in front of masterpieces. She knew what she truly desired, and it was now, finally, within her reach. She glanced back toward her man. Scarlett O'Hara could have done it no better. She glanced back at him, pointed up toward the winged monument, and proclaimed, "I don't see what all the fuss is about. It's not even that attractive." Then spinning to face the hot dog vendor,  Plan C had ended. As others ingurgitated processed foods,  and, quite unnecessarily, further insulated the inside of their garments, he and she sampled this fruit of the park, and sanctified it to themselves. Ah, yes. He truly loved her. So they sat for a while in the arcade adjoining the fountain. What at first appeared to be a woman, and then more probably a man, readied herself/himself to play some music.  A father played hide and (go) seek with his two young daughters.  Their shelter was cool. They were both content; and in love. They walked. They watched the boaters boating, and the rowers rowing.  Most, it seemed, had never before even heard of a row-boat. The boats were littered with couples. Men proud to bravely flap their oars, as no self-respecting man had ever flapped before.  Many attempted, with much difficulty and little success, to propel their vessel by thrusting the oars away from their chests. About half saw fit to drive stern-first. Many also faced the wrong way. Some seated themselves so that the bow stood so far out of the water they could not possibly have seen where they had been, nor what was about to collide from that sector. They watched with amusement. The kind of amusement that forces recollection of first-aid training, warnings received as a child concerning how not to injure yourself severely, and those most painful times visiting families who insist you watch inaptly named funniest home videos on TV. He was feeling in no way superior to those water-borne dodgem-car-drivers, bumbling, bubbling, and bumping along. His performance was no better; though perhaps less evident to everyone. He had now exhausted Plans A, B, and C. It was time to improvise. Then he remembered a peaceful path he had walked weeks before. He imagined her there.  They arose, and followed the sinking sun west.  turned down a short path, perched themselves on a smooth stone, and dangled their wet feet toward a small island. There they hugged. They spoke. They held hands. Occasionally they feared a stray boat would crash into them, crush their ankles, and uncontrolled oars would repeatedly bite at their shins. They hugged again. They talked honestly. They loved each other. He asked her to marry him. She giggled, "okay!" perhaps before realizing he was serious, or that he truly loves her. |