Writings to Stem Your Existential Dread

Question

Question

Jolan Marchese

Orange flames from the fireplace light up the room. Your arm is around my shoulders, the soft sounds of jazz whisper from the speakers, as puffy flakes of snow swirl against the windows. Each of us holds a wine glass, a dark-bodied red with the rich scent of raspberry and a note of pear. The smell of homemade crab lasagna fills the room, while chocolate-pumpkin cheesecake waits in the refrigerator. You take my glass and gently place it on the table. My breath catches as you get down on one knee while holding my hand. Your eyes glisten and there’s a nervous twitch around your mouth as you ask a question.

“Could you help me find my contact? It just popped out.”

Reality washes over me, a cold glass of water thrown in my face. The daydream disappears in a puff of smoke. The lasagna is from a package we bought at the store, the fire is a televised version flickering in time to canned elevator music, and we’re drinking from jelly glasses because we can’t afford anything better.

Sighing, I get down on the floor to help you look for your contact, resigned to the world as it is. I reach under the couch to feel a small, square shape beneath my fingertips. Where did that come from? I retrieve it, a black box with Jared scrawled across the top. I look up to see you grinning at me.

“You know I love you more than filet mignon, right?”

I open the box, my fingers moving in slow motion, only to discover a sparkly delight within.

Before you can ask the question, I answer.

“And I would give up ketchup, for you.”