On the West side of Central Park is a bridge named the Balcony Bridge. It overlooks The Lake and offers a lovely view of the water, the surrounding greenery, and the skyscrapers of New York.

The Beau and I have run over this bridge many times and, often, one of us comments on the stunning view. During the summer, we admired the glimmering lights of the city and their reflections in the dark water as we jogged past in 80 degree temperatures at 9:00pm. In autumn, we both observed the lake surface reflect the bright colors of the dying tree leaves. Now, in winter, we have commented on the frozen lake surface and how breathtaking the scene is when it is dusted with snow. Everything is colored white and appears pristine.

The view from the Balcony Bridge is one of my favorites in all of New York City.

The Beau had suggested that we go for a run on Friday night, but I demurred. I was eagerly looking forward to a meal and, after a long week, I did not have a desire to run in the dark when the temperature had already fallen below 30 degrees.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes; we can always run tomorrow morning,” I replied.

“Okay,” he simply answered.

The next morning, The Beau and I zigzagged our way through the city grid to the street. It was a beautiful morning; the sky was clear, the temperature was notably warmer than it had been all week, the sun was shining brightly. I enjoyed squinting from all the light.

Neither one of us usually says much while we run. Sometimes it is due to physical discomfort; sometimes we’re lost in our thoughts. Sometimes, there’s nothing to say. I enjoy his company, even though no words are exchanged.

When we approached the Balcony Bridge, I looked at the scene before me: The lake was frozen and a recent layer of snow had dusted its surface. Several trails of footprints revealed that people had ignored the signs posted on the shore to refrain from walking on the ice. The surrounding lawns and trees were still coated in snow. The buildings in the distance glinted brightly from the sunlight. The sky was an unblemished canopy of blue. It was stunning.

I began to tell The Beau a memory.

“There’s a magazine ad… for a liqueur, I think,” I started, speaking a bit unevenly because of my breaths while running. “There’s this woman… and she’s this beautiful, svelte thing, you know… and she’s wearing all white… and she’s walking through Central Park at night. She’s holding a bottle of this liqueur… and she’s walking near a bridge—”

“Stop the watch,” The Beau interrupted. His pace was slowing.

I looked over, concerned. The Beau was clearly intending to walk. Like many runners, we both have requested the other to slow down or halt when we’ve felt uncomfortable.

“Are you okay?” I asked, scanning his face for clues.

“Yeah,” he said. He motioned me over closer to the side of the bridge so that we were no longer on the road. He didn’t look gravely unwell, though he did not appear particularly well, either.

“Are you okay?” I asked again, feeling more alarmed. Was he feeling so unwell that not only did he need to stop, but he also could not articulate his discomfort? He was still conscious and hadn’t collapsed—this was encouraging.

By now, he had led me into the southern-most balcony. The small group of speedwalkers we had passed a few minutes earlier were approaching.

The Beau clearly wanted to tell me something, though now he was looking down and his hands were in his pockets. To assuage my own anxiety, I asked again, “Are you okay?”

His gloved hands pulled out a small, black, velvet box. Before he completely opened the clamshell, he realized that the box was upside down.

“Whoops,” he mumbled. He quickly righted the box and opened it. After he noted that I had seen the contents inside, The Beau drew close to me. I felt the heat of his body against my skin.

Still holding the box open, he presented it to me. His voice was excited, almost trembling. Quietly, he asked, “Will you marry me?”

I paused—

—my eyes took in the glorious view before me, my ears heard the footfalls of the two runners approaching and the distant sound of traffic on Central Park West, my skin felt moist and warm against the crisp morning air, and there we were, standing together, still breathing a little fast from running, take note of this moment, take note!—

—and, smiling, I wrapped my arms around him and, in his ear, replied with delight, “Of course—yes—thank you!”