"You know," she said, leaning her head on his shoulder as the song reached its final 'No, no, no, noooo!' , "I think I’d look better in cotton anyway, as long as I'm with you."

Arthur finally pulled out the velvet box. It wasn't a diamond, and it didn't cost a fortune, but as Clara slipped it on, it shone brighter than anything money could ever touch.

Clara stopped dancing. She looked at his worn coat and his calloused fingers—the hands of a man who played for the love of the music, not the paycheck. She looked at the shop door, then back at him.

He walked up to the counter, took her hand, and didn't pull out the ring. Instead, he pulled her into a clumsy, swinging dance right there between the bins of jazz and pop. "Artie, what are you doing?" she giggled, breathless.