He’s been running laps, up and down city streets, in sun and in rain, in snow, sleet, and holiday shopping foot traffic. He wants to be ready.
He’s been bursting into restaurants, with grand aplomb through double-glass front doors, with stealth through secret kitchen entrances, with bratty insistence, pounding on the panes of establishments where waiters wave their hands to say no, sir, no, we’re closed sir, she’s gone. We’re closed. She’s gone.
He’s got a notebook of the city’s finest wedding venues, the most popular rehearsal dinner locations, the “top ten most romantic spots to pop the question.” He’s been tipping maître d’s, putting wedding planners on the payroll, handing out your picture to bus boys and reservationists. If anyone in the city is asked to drop an engagement ring into your champagne glass when you aren’t looking, he’ll get a call.
He’ll be there. The guy who thinks he’s got you for the rest of his life doesn’t stand a chance, because he’ll be there motherfucker.
He’s at the top of his game, in peak physical shape, on a diet designed to give him maximum stamina, speed, and strength.
He might not have been able to say what you needed him to say to make you stay, but only because he thinks you deserve bigger, better, more drama, heightened tension, a moment of last minute him or me, what’s it gonna be.
Someone tries to put a ring on your finger, he’ll be there to intercept. Someone tries to introduce you to their parents, he’ll be there to exfiltrate. If you somehow manage to get so far as to find yourself in a white dress ready to walk down an aisle, expect him to crash through the skylight and Batman you out of there before the flower girls can shout, “What the frig?”
Since you’ve been gone, he’s been getting ready. He’ll be there. He’ll be there motherfucker.
Expect him.
Happy Since You’ve Been Gone Day!
