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Chereen says, “What’s this?”

“Something to celebrate,” replies Tyrone. He brushes his fringe out of his eyes, the same way he’s done it for twenty years; lids falling as his nose flutters. 

“Chereen, my love,” he says filling her flute, “I’ve always known we’d end up here, ever since that day I sat down next to you in Standard 6.” 

She forces a smile and clinks his glass, “It must’ve been the coke glasses and braces breath that got you.”

“Straight between the eyes,” he smiles, with just a hint of crease at his eyes. 

She turns her face away from him towards the sunset. Here it is, that moment she’s always dreamed of, about to be ruined, because – that’s what she does. She tips back most of the wine.  

“Perfect sky, isn’t it?” he says.

She can find no answer. Not to him. Not to why she did it. 

“Chereen, marry me angel?” 

The wine residue is bitter in her mouth. She can’t look back at him. 

“Tyrone, there’s something I need to tell you.”

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