Sunday Night Karaoke

He asked me to marry him on the beach towards the end of March. It was just over forty degrees, and the creature in the sea told me to accept the proposal. I would have accepted it no matter what, but hearing her voice made me feel confident that it was the right decision. After he got up from the sand and kissed me on the cheek, we ordered an Uber and went downtown to sing karaoke. On the way to the bar, I took the shell I’d picked up from the beach and put it to my ear. The voice inside told me to sing Natalie Cole or Gladys Knight. I wanted to sing Carole King, but the shell vibrated in a way that made me feel as though I shouldn’t dismiss its suggestions. The Uber driver put on Max Richter and my new fiance smirked. He loves demonstrating how much he knows about classical music. The voice in the shell was simply a part of the voice that came from the sea, but it told me that I’d learn to appreciate his taste in music. It also told me to tip the Uber driver twenty-four percent.

At the bar, my fiance started talking to a man at the bar who identified himself as Mr. Arnold, the computer science teacher from the local high school. He was confused when we told him that we’d just gotten engaged. He wanted to know who gets engaged on a beach in March when it’s freezing out. We told him we’re from Nova Scotia so this doesn’t feel like freezing. He offered to buy us a round, but neither one of us drink, so he bought my fiance a coke and I got a diet coke. The DJ called my fiance up to sing “My Own Worst Enemy” to the seven or eight people in attendance. I put in “You Make My Dreams Come True,” which seemed appropriate for the occasion. While my fiance was singing, Mr. Arnold asked me how long the two of us had been together, and I had to put the shell up to my ear to remind me.

It’s been eight years.

Mr. Arnold felt that eight years was a long time to be with someone without a ring, and I told him that, well, now I have one. When my fiance was done singing, it was my turn, but I let Mr. Arnold skip the line so we wouldn’t have to talk to him anymore. He sang “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” and I couldn’t tell if it was some kind of joke or if he thought it was Christmas. My fiance found it all very amusing, but I suggested we go back to the hotel. He told me he wanted to sing a few more songs. There are several on the Rumors album that he had never sung at karaoke before, and with so few people there, he could probably do the entire tracklist. I didn’t need to sing anything else, but I did want to go on my phone and write up a caption in my notes app that I could post on social media tomorrow. I realized I should have had someone take a photo of my fiance proposing, but nobody else was on the beach and the voice from the sea probably didn’t have hands, so she couldn’t take a photo of it. I asked the seashell what to include in my post.

No caption is more impactful.

You’re going to need to bring him back to the beach tomorrow so you can get a proper photo.

When people ask when the wedding is, tell them next August even though it won’t be in August.

I was hoping it would be in August, but the voice knows better than me, because it’s a voice in a shell. Who am I to question something that can fit itself into such a small space? One time, I didn’t listen to the voice in my cheerios box, and my home office became infested with ladybugs. I wasn’t about to make that mistake now that I was heading towards marriage. My fiance was singing “Second Hand News” and Mr. Arnold was outside having a smoke with the bouncer. I went into the restroom and held the shell up to the mirror. I asked it if I looked all right.

You look beautiful.

You should think about getting your ears pinned back.

You should flirt with the DJ.

The DJ had long black hair pulled back in a ponytail, and the sticker on his laptop said his name was DJ X-Files. I asked him if he liked the tv show and he told me that he’d never seen it, but that it sounded cool. If I had to bet, I would wager he was half my age, but the voice in the shell didn’t see that as a concern. I told him I was engaged, and asked him if he’d ever made out with someone the night of their proposal. He scoffed and shook his head, but then he told me to meet him in the bar’s backroom during the next song. As soon as my fiance was done singing, DJ X-Files told him that he’d done so well he’d earned a bonus song. My fiance couldn’t believe his luck. The unedited version of “American Pie” started to play, and I realized what DJ X-Files had done. We now had eight minutes to commit infidelity. A lesser kind, since I wasn’t married yet.

In the backroom, we could still hear my fiance singing about the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost, but all I could think about was how good it felt when the DJ put his lips on my stomach. He had lifted up my sweater and he didn’t ask about the birthmark next to my navel. It’s in the shape of a stop sign, and I had someone tattoo the word “Stop” on it.

“Should I stop,” he asked.

I asked the voice in the shell.

Tell him to keep going.

I told him to keep going.

And he did.

In the main room, Mr. Arnold had joined my fiance for the final two minutes of “American Pie.” I had set the shell on the floor while DJ X-Files whispered his phone number to me over and over so I wouldn’t forget it. I knew it didn’t matter, because the shell would remember if it was a number worth calling. Tomorrow, I’d have another proposal, and I’d say “Yes.” Next year, I’d get married, but not in August. A lifetime from now, after my fiance became a husband and then a husband who left and then came back and then died of a heart attack at a Packers game, I’d return to the sea and ask the voice, the big voice, the biggest voice, what I should do then.

Upon the crashing waves, I’d have my answer.

It would come with a salt that tastes like a Sunday.

And the kind of cold you only find in March.