At home, she cooked. Chicken. Roasted. With potatoes and green beans and a sauce that she made from the pan juices and a splash of white wine and that was so good I asked her to marry me, which was a joke, which we both knew was a joke, and which we both knew was not entirely a joke.
"Ask me properly," she said, pouring the sauce.
"I will. When the time is right."
"When will the time be right?"
"When I have a ring and a plan and a speech that's better than anything I've said in a press conference."
"That's a low bar, Danny. Your press conferences are twelve minutes of saying nothing."
"Exactly. The proposal will be thirteen minutes of saying everything."
