A few weeks ago, Nina mentioned that she’d seen someone use the Ritz Theatre’s board to propose. I snapped a picture of it on the way to work:
“It’s a shit proposal,” she said.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“You see it for two seconds on the way to work. You think: welp, that’s it.”
“That’s my proposal, I guess.”
“That’s my proposal. Moment’s done. I suppose I’m engaged now. Better start thinking about who to invite.”
“I see your point, it’s pretty unceremonious.”
“I’d want a flash mob. At least. In front of a huge crowd, lots of photographers, get to be the center of attention.”
“What if you drove by and didn’t see it? Mike would have to keep on paying for the next day until you did.”
“Or maybe we’ve just been assuming that it’s about Lynsey. Look, there’s no comma. Maybe it’s about asking Mike to marry whoever’s put up the sign.”
“Lynsey was just a red herring, you mean.”
“Exactly. Still a shit proposal, though.”