“Well, I do,” I sniffled. I was pretty sure. It was hard to tell, though. I didn’t think married men walked around in unbuttoned white dress shirts deliberately to undermine female defenses. They probably sometimes did it accidentally, while getting dressed, but it was the deliberateness of the gesture—the knowingness—that got to me. Okay, that and he was really built. Would his muscles all sag the instant the judge said “husband and wife” or would all the sagging be one-sided? Marriage made women sexless blobs but men got to stay sexy, everybody said. “But not like this. Not in a stupid government office because of a stupid—”

He waited me out patiently (well, he looked kind of impatient, but he did wait) until my next pause. “We’ve talked about this. It’s either this or I’ll have to go back to France and you have to stay here until after what you like to call the real wedding.”

I knew. That was exactly the problem. I couldn’t stand another six months apart. Neither could he. It was heartbreaking, those separations in airports. It was horrible, it felt each time as if somebody were reaching inside us and ripping us to pieces. “If I get married, I’ll be old. And ugly. You won’t, because you’re a guy, but I will.”

“What?” he squinted, baffled.

“You know married women aren’t sexy.”

He just stared. “I’ll never understand your culture in a million years.”

“That’s right, you’re French, you probably believe in affairs.”

His head came up, brown eyes cool. “No. No, that I don’t believe in. I saw affairs rip apart all the families I ever had.” He started buttoning his shirt, which was a real shame. I noticed my dad had escaped. “That’s a stupid thing people say about the French anyway. They only think that because tourists never meet anybody but slimy people. Who else is going to walk up and start hitting on a tourist in the middle of the street—a nice guy? Unless you really don’t want to marry me, quit trying to pick a fight and go get dressed. We’re going to be late.” He stalked out of the room.

I sat there and sniffled a second and glowered after him.

Finally I got up and went to find my dress. A few minutes later, his hair straightened, he caught me in the living room, whirled me around, went down on one knee, and kissed my hand. “You look beautiful, crevette. Will you marry me?”

When we got out to the car, I discovered he had decorated it with all the leftover Christmas ribbons from the day before.

“Because in France,” he whispered, “we always decorate the wedding cars with ribbons. Are you crying again?”