I relax. I feel the warm breeze from an open window of the restaurant. Out the window I can see the Thames below us; across the river is Hampton Court lit up at night. It's beautiful and romantic. I look at his hand holding mine in the center of our table, and I take another sip of wine.

We've finished our dinner and I'm on my third glass. I can drink two glasses of wine without losing any control.

I look into his eyes. "I love this. Thank you for taking me here. Thank you for being here. This –" I sweep my free hand around the room we're in and the view "– is perfect. Simply perfect." I take another sip.

He looks at me. "You're perfect too."

I look down in embarrassment. I know I'm not perfect – I have to live with my flaws. But he thinks I'm perfect. Or he's willing to lie about it, but I can work with that. He loves me, he really does. I can feel it.

I look back up into his eyes. "You're perfect too." He's closer to my ideal than I ever realistically dreamed. We've been dating for five months. He's nice to me. He's cute, especially when he smiles. He has a job. He has fallen in love with me. We're compatible in so many ways. I like spending time with him. He excites me in bed. There's more, I can't even list all the things I like about him.

I take another sip of wine. He squeezes my hand and says, "I wish we could just stop time and be here, like this, forever."

"WHAT?" I pull my hand back and sit up straight.

He looks pained. He's sensitive to my feelings, I forgot to include that on my list. "No?" he asks tentatively.

"Well, this is awfully splendid. Marvelous, really. But I don't want to stop here. Your 30; I'm 28. It's time. I want you to get me pregnant and marry me, preferably not in that order, and for us to have kids. I want you to help provide for us and be a great dad to our children."

I add, "When our last child leaves for college, we can come back here, share a bottle of champagne, and let time stand still. Until then, we have places to go, things to do, lives to move forward. So no." I cross my arms. "Absolutely no time-stopping." I set down my wine, I shouldn't drink any more.

"That sounds . . . calculating. I'm just a piece in your plan?"

I uncross my arms and lean forward a little. "Did you really want to stay here all night? You're supposed to be getting me drunk so you can take me back to your flat and, I don't know, take proper advantage of me." I take a large sip of my wine, illustrating my point.

He smiles. "I was thinking improper advantage."

"Even better."

"So," he says carefully, and I realize this is a treacherous conversation I shouldn't be having on my third glass of wine, "You have everything planned out? I'm just an means to an end?"

Of course he's a means to an end. But a cardinal rule for dealing with British men is not to mention that you're tying them down. I set down my wine where I can't easily reach it. And I try to give the speech of my life.

"I don't know exactly what you think men are good for. But you're on this earth to have children and provide for them. However, you can't actually create the little beggars. That's where I come in."

He smiles. This is going to work. I plow on, "And I don't know what will happen." I can hear a little desperation entering my voice. "Things can go wrong. And there can be good surprises. Maybe we'll make it to that bottle of champagne. Maybe we won't." I shrug helplessly.

He reaches across the table and again takes my hand and pulls it to the center of the table. He looks me straight in the eye and says, seriously, "I want to try."

I'll count that as a marriage proposal, more elegant version to come.

I squeeze his hand. "Me too. It's a plan with you in it. I want my children to have half of your genes. You're getting a good deal." I think I just accepted.

He nods and I continue. "I want to be writhing in pain and agony during childbirth and have it being your child I'm working so bloody hard to bring into this world. Your hand on mine, trying futilely to comfort me."

"You make that sound so appealing."

"No one thinks that part is appealing. Don't be an arse. It's a whole big package, good and bad. I'm not perfect, by the way."

"I hadn't realized how conniving you could be." He smiles at me. He loves me. And he's . . . accepting my imperfections. That's what I should have put first on my list.

"Well, part of my evil connivingness is going back to your flat and having sex. Isn't that a reasonably large silver lining?"

"Sounds good to me." He stands.

"Let me finish my wine." I add, "I want to enjoy the moment." I look out at the view. It's so beautiful.

He sits back down. He takes another sip of his drink, then says, "I was enjoying the moment. Now I'm having thoughts of you . . . naked." He looks me up and down. "Writhing in pleasure." His eyes twinkle. "Those thoughts are very distracting."

Eep!

"Softly nibbling your breasts and hearing those little high-pitched yelps you make."

My breathing speeds up.

He smirks. "Going down on you and driving you crazy with desire for me."

I slug down the rest of my wine. "I'm ready to go now."