She sublet her apartment and set her toothbrush next to his. That lasted for a week. She bought a blue ceramic bathroom set. “To match your eyes,” she told him. There were other changes. She left her clothes strewn on the floor after showering. She made fresh brownies and left them on the kitchen table. Her smell clung to his clothes all the time instead of just occasionally. He breathed it in when he was patrolling the streets, responding to domestic disputes and bringing homeless people into shelters. The smell of her made some things easier. So did the chocolate.
When Grant first proposed, Kat was sweaty, her dark hair disheveled in ringlets around her shoulders after dancing to salsas and bent back tangos. Laughing, they stumbled to her place. She fetched sparkling water. He pulled out the velvet ring box from his pocket and set it in the middle of Kat’s bamboo coffee table.
She placed glasses on either side of the box as if it weren’t there. As if it had always been there. She stroked his broad shoulders and said, “You don’t know me well enough.” He said, “That’s my problem to solve. And what better way.”