Perfect Timing

Love is the greatest refreshment in life.
~Pablo Picasso

I wriggled out of my underwear underneath my ankle-length skirt and slipped on my shorts. In one decisive move, I undid the knot that held the skirt wrapped around my waist, and let the long, hot fabric drop to the ground. My boyfriend and I had been cycling for nearly a month in Morocco, and despite the ninety-degree temperatures, I usually kept my skin covered out of respect for the Muslim culture.

We had decided to take this detour to Africa halfway through our six-month bicycle trip in Europe. Now I wished we hadn't come here. Bob and I had been dating for five years, and we'd joked that we'd either come back from the trip engaged, or on separate planes. It didn't seem very funny any more.

Wearing just my running shorts and a T-shirt, I felt practically naked. All day, we'd been riding east along the Route des Kasbahs through a broad, flat valley bordered on our left by the Atlas Mountains. As we peddled through miles of empty desert, I thought about just one thing: ice-cold watermelon. It was my birthday, and since we were in the middle of the desert, I knew there would be no fancy dinner and no celebratory alcoholic beverages. But there could be watermelon.

I told Bob my fantasy. As I set up our tent in the garden at the youth hostel in Goulmima, Bob had walked to the market down the street to get a watermelon. A group of men sat in the shade in front of the hostel, talking and drinking sweet mint tea. I had wanted to sit in the garden under the apricot and pomegranate trees, split the watermelon in half, and eat until all that was left was the empty, green bowl of the rind.

Bob had returned, cradling a large watermelon like a baby. In a friendly gesture, he had offered to share the watermelon with the men at the hostel. I, however, wasn't going to budge. As Bob walked back to the men, he promised to bring me a slice of watermelon. I sat in the garden, fuming. Bob didn't come back. Finally, I walked over to the house and saw the men eating watermelon. My watermelon.

"Thanks for bringing me some watermelon," I had snapped at Bob. I was so angry I was shaking. Bob looked at me, startled. This wasn't like me.

I'd been struggling with how to maintain my sense of identity on our trip. The clothing was just the beginning. My relationship with Bob had changed. Public displays of affection -- holding hands and kissing, but also the casual touch on the arm -- were taboo, and after trying so hard to remember these new rules all day, at night when we were alone in our tent, we forgot to fall back into our old, affectionate habits. But mostly, I hated that we had to call each other husband and wife to appear proper, because I wasn't his wife. And I wanted to be, more than anything.
Suddenly, I felt trapped in the walled compound of the youth hostel. If I couldn't have my watermelon, I was going to give myself something I'd wanted for a long time. And that was when I stripped down to my running shorts.

"I'm going for a run. Alone." I told Bob.

"Be careful!" he called as I turned to leave.

Outside the gate, I looked right, the direction we had come from, and turned left down the dusty street. I'd been a faithful runner for years, but had given it up after a painful marathon. As I started running, it felt like being reacquainted with a lover after a long absence -- I remembered how good it used to be, but now it was just awkward. My stride was stiff, and I could feel pebbles through the worn-down soles of my shoes. The wind was blowing dust so thick that I closed my eyes and held my breath as I ran through a tunnel. On the other side, I opened my eyes to see people filling the narrow street.

"Ça va bien?" people called out to me.

Nodding, I replied tersely, "Oui, ça va bien." It's going very well.

It was true. My stride wasn't smooth, and I was breathing hard, but it felt good to run. My feet kicked up puffs of dust as I ran past boys playing soccer and girls filling plastic jugs at a well. Soon, my body took over and I found my rhythm. Running was as easy as breathing when everything's right in the world. As my pace slowed to a walk, I realized it had been a long time since I'd felt at peace with myself.
My anger about the watermelon had been hiding something else: a hurt that sat like a hard lump in my throat. I had thought Bob was waiting for the perfect opportunity to ask me to marry him. But maybe it wasn't about the perfect opportunity. The truth was, I probably wanted more from Bob than he might be able to give me.

I turned around and headed back to the hostel. I wanted to go back and tell Bob about the kasbah I ran past in town. Most evenings we'd sit outside our tent in the dark, drinking tea and talking. But after taking so many turns on my run through town, I wasn't sure how far it was back to the hostel. My mouth was chalky dry, and I regretted leaving my water bottle behind. At the edge of town, when I looked up to see Bob walking towards me, carrying a bottle of water, I almost didn't believe it could be him.

"I'm sorry," he said, and handed me the water. I took a long drink. "Here's your birthday present." He handed me a Picasso postcard from a museum in Madrid we'd been to more than a month ago. On the back of the postcard, he asked me to marry him.

"How did you find me?" I asked.

"I just knew," he said. "I walked out of the hostel and I asked myself which way you would go, and I knew that if I just kept going, I'd find you."

I looked down at the card. Bob always knew when to keep me company and when to let me go on my own, like when he helped me train for the London marathon, and then waited for three months for me to come back from Europe.
"You don't have to answer now, if you don't want," Bob told me.

It was the worst time for a proposal. We'd just had a fight and I was covered in dirt. There was no ring. Instead, he brought me a bottle of water because he knew I'd be thirsty. He followed his heart to find me, and I realized that's all I needed.

"Of course! Of course I'll marry you!" I told him. A group of twelve-year-old girls were watching us nearby, and to their delight, Bob gave me a brief hug. We held hands for a moment, and the girls covered their mouths and giggled as we walk side-by-side back to the hostel.

That night, we sat outside our tent, eating watermelon and spitting seeds into the garden. When you just know, you don't have to wait for the perfect time to ask.

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