She would have her diamond ring, to propose without one was unthinkable.
I scrubbed hard at the old brass curtain ring, spat on my threadbare shirt cuff and scrubbed some more. The metal began to un-dull, the gleam deepened, the shine began to shimmy.
Poor man's gold, but gold still the same, to me anyway.
A piece of glass, bright enough to catch the eye, to snatch the light, to capture a heart.
A smidgen of gum from the wad.
I had my offering.
* * * * * * * * * *
Beverley was beautiful, and I loved her. The princess of cardboard city, the dirt-encrusted duchess of the homeless.
This was our palace. I no longer saw the peeling wallpaper or the skeletal wall laths, the piles of rubbish and rubble meant nothing to me.
A squat is a squat is a squat.
But I saw Beverley, and loved her.
I sank to one knee and stretched my hand out towards her, hope sparkling between my thumb and forefinger.
I daren't speak for fear my voice would crack.
She looked at the ring, then into my eyes.
Gossamer wings fluttered my heart as I awaited her answer.
©2012 Stephen. J. Green.