The roses were not a surprise. The shoe was.
It was a breezy day on Lake Michigan, under a willow tree and atop a gingham blanket. “William,” Cynthia asked, laughing, “what are you doing?”
“Proposing,” he answered easily. “If you’d let me. You’re always saying you need more shoes, so I thought this’d be practical.”
Cynthia pretended to swoon. “A man after my own heart. How can I refuse?”
William slipped off Cynthia’s espadrilles and intoned, “Cynthia Marie Sinclair — my dear Cinderella — will you marry me?”
Cynthia, in mock seriousness, said, “Well, I suppose. If the shoe fits.”