If the Shoe Fits

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.”

It did.

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