from the book Manananggal Terrorizes Manila and Other Stories

Doris was late. Come to think of it, Doris was always late. Henry brushed a speck of dandruff off his expensive new shirt. Didn't she know how hard it was to get reservations for The Bistro? The place was always booked, recession or no recession. And the maitre d', the snob of the century was so damn superior Henry wanted to kick him.

His palms sweated under the wine list. After chewing off his lower lip Henry decided on a Chablis. For a price of a bottle you could finance a revolution in a small country. Oh, well, you only propose once--unless you had a thick hide, and Henry didn't. Nothing about him was thick, not his waistline, and not his ego. Besides, he was reasonably sure Doris would marry him. He was always quite certain that if he didn't ask her soon she'd ask him, and then he wouldn't know what to say.

He felt the bulge in his trousers. There was nearly three months' salary in the little black box--a stone the size of a small pimple. If his mother knew how much he's shelled out for it, she'd burst an artery.

Everything had been rehearsed in his mind many times. Henry never did anything at the spur of the moment. Nothing was too trivial to permit him a good night's sleep. The evening at hand had been plotted and replotted in his neat little accountant's brain. He would act nonchalant all throughout dinner, and then he would order champagne. He would divert her attention from their glasses, and then he would slip the ring into her drink. "what's that in your glass?" he would say, with the cool, the panache of a Cary Grant. She would turn pale, of course, then her eyes would widen with surprise and delight, overflow with adoration for him...

No, something wasn't quite right...He sat bolt upright in his chair. Good God, suppose she fainted? He wouldn't put it past Doris, who was not above making a scene in front of the assembled money. Especially before the assembled money.

He was sweating now, droplets systematically running down his neck. How could he survive dinner half-expecting her to keel over and land on her salad? No! Doubts flooded in his formerly neat little accountant's brain. What if for some bizarre reason she refused him? What if he forgot to ask her what was in her drink and she swallowed the bleeping ring? What if he forgot to put the ring in, and then asked? What if, suppose, assuming that?

The waiter arrived with the wine and two glasses. No sign of Doris. He waved the waiter away and poured himself a glass. He gulped it down so fast he had no time to taste it.

Doris swayed into The Bistro on thin, spiked heels. With each step her hips described a figure eight. Several pairs of eyes turned in her direction, rather, in the direction of her rump. After all, hadn't Henry succumbed to love at first sight without ever seeing her face? Ah, romance...

"I'm so sorry, sweets, aerobics class...Wednesday, you know...my instructor was positively sadistic..if it weren't for this I'd have gone straight to the reflexologist...What a lovely shirt, Henry."

"Thank you," he said.

"You sounded so mysterious on the phone. What's the occasion?"

"Oh, nothing..." He had planned on a seductive drawl, and was unprepared for the squeak he emitted.

"Oh really."

Something snapped in his neat little accountant's brain. Soon she would reach for her glass. He would have to ask her the question. Then he would have to marry her. He couldn't decide which was worse. He forced hiself to look at her face. She was smiling at him, her upper lip stretched thinly over her tiny teeth. Her eyes! They were so close together they looked crossed. For a moment he couldn't remember who she was. How could she marry this...person?

"Is something wrong?" she was saying.

"No!" he replied, too loudly. NO! Said his mind, so loudly that the people at the next table seemed to hear.

"Some wine?" he croaked, handing her his glass and taking her glass with his free hand so that their arms were intertwined on the table.

"Ooh, how romantic," murmured Doris, but he didn't hear. He drained her glass, swallowing hard. Suppose he choked? Suffocated! Smothered to death!

He took a deep breath. He was breathing! Alive!

"What was that in your glass?" she said.

"What?"

"I thought I saw something in your glass."

"Oh, uh...it was a...a grape."

---