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Jenny Sadre-Orafai



At the Cirque du Soleil LOVE show in Vegas—don’t get married there though.  It’s been done

to death. Be advised—no pictures at those shows. They will make an exception for you,

brave one.


Fly with her to Mexico City. She’s been before but not with you. Take her to Casa Azul.

Azul means blue. Look for the biggest blue house in the country.  See it from the sky?

Bend your knee there.


Rent a plane—the more local the better. Give back to the community and all, right? Anyway,

commission some plane and have the pilots string a sign saying, “Marry me, dove.” She knows

she’s the dove.


Call into that radio program for pathetic romantics that you both have listened to together

in fast food restaurants, laughing. You’ve always wondered if she listened alone, secretly. Call in

and ask for her hand.


Do it around two in the morning. The two is representative of your union of course. The ring

is in your nightstand and next to condoms. Ask her when she’s finally asleep. Imagine her head

pushing into a nod.


Take her sleeping finger and rest the heavy gold there, on that second finger; we call it the ring

finger and the one she’s been told to awkwardly apply pricey eye cream with but that she never

remembers to do.



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