A number of thoughts spring up unbidden, like how they are very clearly rushing this and how they should have waited to the end, or maybe after midnight mass, or hell- maybe not at all. This is a miserable time of year, Winter is the season that they drowned in, it will always carry with it the pall of death.

Mary, St Valentine, St Jean, St Raphael the Archangel, someone ask God to settle their fucking nerves for them.

"I've been thinking about it," they offer, quiet.

"And... I don't want any pressure on you. If you say no, if you don't want me to bring it up again, I won't. It's okay. But."

Deep breath.

"I want to ask you again. And if you're still not sure, then again, this time next year. As long as it takes, until you know for sure if it's a yes or no. I want to give you time, as much as you want, but... I know, ehn? I know that you're it like I know pretty much nothing else. I mean it. And I want..."

Softer, "I want to tell God about it. I want to devote myself to you."