Our empty lunch plates have been taken away, and my attention is focused on the cold scoops of strawberry-laced vanilla ice cream laid out so temptingly in the glass platter before me. “How would you like to be proposed to?” she asks abruptly. She leans forward, black eyes level with mine, her slice of cake on the table seemingly forgotten.

“I don’t know.” I tell her. She says nothing, only continues looking at me intently. “This is not something I have given much thought to,” I insist, wondering privately from whence this bewilderingly disconnected question has arisen. She props her head upon her palm – cosily – as if she is capable of sitting in that chair indefinitely listening to me concocting silly fantasies, and I am flustered by the sudden attention.

“I – I guess I would like to be proposed to directly,” I blurt out, “and not through my parents like most traditional Muslims seem to do.” “Really?” she asks curiously. “Yes, really.” I slip a tart strawberry into my mouth, my lips puckering as I suck. Perhaps she is waiting for a fuller response, for she watches still.

“I am making this up as I go along,” I finally admit, and her mouth curves upward despite her disappointment. But I do not tell her that as I speak, I can see the uneven horizon in the distance and feel liquid waves of blue lapping at my toes. We have tired of walking, and when he finally turns toward me in askance, he does so with such sincerity and grace that I am moved to tears by his simple gesture. But it is a foolish childlike fantasy, and besides, February is too cold and dreary for such embarrassingly fanciful dreams.