“They just got engaged,” my brother tells us, stage whispering and motioning with his head. Through closed teeth, “And it’s a craaazy diamond.”
I pretend to look at the how-to-build-a-gigantic-suspension-bridge plaques to try to get a look at the ring. The couple is young, probably younger than me, and the ring is huge. The kind of diamond that I always imagine snagging stockings and scratching soft baby cheeks. Who even wears stockings?
The family was in town, and the four of us were at the Brooklyn Bridge. Baby Brother is suddenly an expert on diamonds, further evidenced by his definitive “I like it” and “I don’t like it” judgments at Tiffany later in the weekend.
He confides in me that he’s helping a friend buy an engagement ring. Not a huge one, but a ring nonetheless.
The friend is proposing at karaoke. And I make my brother promise not to ever let anyone propose to me in a public place.
“I’ll say no.”
“I know. You’ve told me a million times.”