Chicago before sunrise

if i remember correctly,  you can only see half of downtown at six in the morning. the dense fog breathes across the lake and hovers near the fifty-first story. and I know if you light up a cigarette, the rest of it disappears.

 

it was june eleventh. we reached the city at exactly five fourteen in the morning just as the sun was supposed to come up. but it didn’t. you were upset because you were down to your last pack. i was upset because you were pissed off.

 

we walked in circles, not because we didn’t know where we were but because we knew exactly where we were - beside one of our favorite starbucks - waiting for it to open.

 

five minutes until six so we stop circling.

 

you yawn, your mouth stretches and I can see the back of your throat. before you finish, i begin to yawn too. you start to pace between store doors and I stand my ground. i never quite understood why you paced so much.

 

we grabbed our usual coffees and headed towards grant park. an old man and his dog are playing tennis. so you grab my hand and lead me over to a park bench. it’s almost six thirty and we still hadn’t seen the sun.

 

by this time, the espresso has kicked in and we’re both laughing like little kids. and then you pause and say ‘two year ago, we sat at the exact same park bench.’

 

and then you got on one knee and proposed. you didn’t light up a cigarette but the rest of downtown disappeared, and I only saw your eyes staring up at me.