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MIDNIGHT SNACK

We were up on South Mountain at a steakhouse Dana tolerated for me, watching the lights glitter in the darkness below like gemstones. The air was heavy for the desert, humid from the storms which were washing it clean. Wet-desert fragrances wafted up to us at our table on the broad verandah while lightning still spiked down on Camelback and thunder rumbled in the distance.

It was a pretty spot on a coolish summer night, but not what you'd call a romantic restaurant. Cowboy steakhouse. Sawdust on the floor. An old well established place for its regulars. No need to cater to the tourists. Quiet now at the end of a weeknight's trade.

Dana, also very quiet, just nibbled at her grilled chicken while I ate my New York cut and let her make her decision. I knew it would be a big step for her to make. It had been a long courtship. Growing affection. Growing trust both ways. Helping each other, patience always and laughter. Very few flowers but much laughter. And talk. Constant talk. Always there was talk.

Then Dana flushed. Even in the dim lamplight of the verandah I could tell she was blushing. In different circumstances this might have been funny. Dana doesn't blush. She doesn't fluster. She barely sweats under heavy pressure. Poise under stress is her forte'. But now she ...

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