She wishes Andy wore glasses. That his floors were unfinished wood and that she could smell the deep scent of dirt when she dipped her head to the instep of his neck. She wishes that he listened to some inane metal rock and not bubble pop, that he called her something other than his “little Angel.”

She wishes he could be someone else.

But he does learns where to scratch her cats behind the ears, how to make her smile, exactly how many times he can take the Lord’s name in vain before she smacks him across the face. He learns to love her.

There’s a tiny blue box of promises and hope and little white lies sitting on the dinner table.

Angela thinks about how he didn’t kill her cat and that she can actually talk to him at work without orchestrating an elaborate mission plan.

“Marry me.”

And it isn’t enough because despite all her best judgments she wants fresh beets rolling in from just outside her window and to hear the isolated letter D without feeling inexplicably guilty.

“Yes. I accept your proposal.”

But it’s a start and it’ll have to do.