From the memoirs of Carl Rogan, written in years 7-9 A.C; collected Year 24.

She lay out on the bed before me, totally unselfconscious in her nakedness, hair damp with sweat. The dragon made slow undulating movements as she breathed, long deep breaths, long slow ripples of color. She was looking at something behind and just above my shoulder, eyes slightly unfocused, a gentle smile resting comfortably on her face. The sheets twisted around her on the bed like the open lips of a huge rectangular mouth.

The moment hit my eyes like a camera flash, her breathing, the bed, the dim traffic light shadows from the window, embedding itself in my memory. The most perfect moment. It felt right in a way few things ever had.

I pulled the ring out of the dresser drawer, slipped it out of its little white box as surreptitiously as possible. Then I tossed it to the dragon, tucking it gently in the curve of navel held in its coils.

She grunted at the touch of cold metal and looked down at me, kneeling there between her legs, caught the glint of diamond. “Oh…” she whispered, with that rapt expression I loved so much. “Carl…”

“Jeanie,” I said, as earnestly as possible without any clothes on, “…marry me?”

“Carl,” she said again, stretching the moment, running a hand down her ribcage. “Oh, Carl, yes, of course.”

Her long fingers plucked the ring off her belly and twisted it in the light. “It’s beautiful, baby,” she whispered to me.

“You’re beautiful,” I said, thinking I finally meant it.