We were studying, like we always do, attempting to cram and review and practice and apply the rules and many exceptions of law and the diagnostic minutiae of medicine. We staked out our place in a small group study room in the hospital’s library. Apparently, it used to be a server room. The far wall had a large, solitary a/c unit suspended from the ceiling. When it was turned on, a gentle hum permeated the room.
We’d talked about getting married before – mostly in jest. We figured, since we’re so good together and for one another, why not ride it out for the rest of our lives? We would jokingly ask the other for our respective hands in marriage. I would say, “you better propose because I asked to be boyfriends first and I said I love you first.” He would retort, “well, ok, but only if you propose back to me.”
In that small room, between multiple choice questions and doggedly complex essays, we happened on the subject again. I’m not exactly sure how or why, but when he took my hand from across the small table laden with study materials and looked at me with such piercing sincerity, with such quiet honesty and asked, “Anthony, will you marry me,” my stomach turned in upon itself and my heart felt fluttery like a paper plane in a breeze. Giddy, a smile broke across my face and I thought, so, this is what those moments in television and movies feel like.
And, of course, I said yes.