Arts
That Wednesday night, Sandra took the evening off, and she invited Mark out for a date night at the tavern. She had thought a long time about the setting. The house felt like home to her now, and Brigit’s Hearth was a place most magical. In the end, however, she decided that she needed to be in the place she felt clearest and strongest, and that was here, in her own tavern, the place she had built up herself. She’d had her hair trimmed, too—not that Mark would notice—and she’d spent too much time dressing: fifteen minutes trying on clothes, and then ten minutes telling herself it didn’t matter what she wore, and then another fifteen minutes trying on clothes. In the end, she went with something that made her feel very confidently witchy: a black bodysuit with a deep purple tie-dye duster over it, and her favorite pentagram pendant at her throat. Mark arrived at around six, and Sandra was waiting for him. She looked fabulous, sitting there in the far corner of booth seven, with her gold pendant sparkling entrancingly. He ordered a Guinness, and she ordered a Coke. Watching her from across the table, Mark began to suspect that she was up to something. She wasn’t usually this dressy on a Wednesday night at the tavern. Plus, she was laughing and making small talk, just as if nothing was going on. So, obviously, something was going on. Their server brought their drinks and asked whether they were ready to order. He was about to say yes—but Sandra asked for a few minutes. Okay, now he knew something was up. Obviously, neither of them needed to look at a Rose and Feather menu. “Mark,” she began, “I have something I want to ask you, before we eat. And I just ….” She trailed off and sat in silence, apparently searching for words. Finally she exclaimed, “Well, damn it! I thought that if I did this here, in my own tavern, I would feel calm and confident. I thought that if I was wearing something that makes me feel good, it would be easier. But now, none of that’s helping! “But comfortable or not, here we go: Mark, will you marry me?” Mark blinked. He didn’t usually doubt his short-term memory, but did she actually just say the words that seemed to be echoing around in there? “I know,” she continued, “I know you asked me, not that long ago, and I said no. I said no, mostly because I thought that being married would mean that I had to be someone I’m not: a pastor’s wife. And there were two things wrong with my thinking there. First of all, you wouldn’t ask me to be anyone I’m not. I know that. And second of all, I do care about your people, about your congregation, so even though I’m not a Christian, it turns out that I can be a pretty good pastor’s wife, in my own Wiccan way.” Only now did it begin to sink in for Mark: she actually wanted to marry him! “And speaking of my Wiccan way,” she went on, “I like rituals and ceremonies. So now I think we should have one where we bind our lives together in front of all our friends. Which is to say that I want to get married. Unless … that is, you haven’t asked me to marry you, recently. And, Mark, if you’ve changed your mind, that’s okay. Because I love you, married or unmarried, no matter what. I thought maybe you were just giving me some space, but, you know, if you don’t want to, any more—” “Stop,” Mark interrupted. “You were doing so well, right up to there. I haven’t asked, recently, because I didn’t want to be a pest. And then after I got all banged up, I guess maybe I didn’t want you to marry me out of pity, or a sense of obligation, or something.” He shook his head. “Or maybe I just felt too pathetic to be, you know, an attractive prospect for marriage. But of course I haven’t changed my mind! And I think I can be a pretty good tavern-keeper’s husband. “So, yes. I will marry you. Thanks for asking.” He leaned across the table and kissed her, thinking, How did I get so lucky? But then, inexplicably, she pulled back and took his face between her hands.