I had known Irene for several years as a work colleague at "The Bureau" before I got around to asking her out. Unknowingly I had picked the perfect time -- Irene had just broken up with her "steady," and she said "yes" when I asked. I later learned that a bunch of the guys in the office wanted to go with her, but had been rebuffed because of her relationship with What's-his-name.

Our first date, a leisurely dinner at a German restaurant on the East Side, went well. Our life-histories were very different, but our values were very similar, and Irene was great fun and an easy conversationalist. At the end of the evening I was thinking of Irene as a wonderful candidate for long-term relationship. Future dates were set, and before long we made plans for a really big date -- a climbing trip to the Shawangunks two or three hours up the Hudson.

The night before the big outing we had a party at Dale's apartment. Dale's girlfriend, Helga, and Irene plied us with tequila, thinking that if we got a bit inebriated we might cancel the climbing in favor of a more relaxed activity. The ploy backfired -- Dale and I were fit and eager early Sunday morning, but Helga and Irene were feeling below par. I picked up Dale and Helga in my VW bug, then we went to pick up Irene. I rang her apartment -- no answer. Tried again -- no answer. I was "stood up" for what was to me the most important date of our courtship. Back in the car, we started up -- heading for the 'Gunks as a threesome.

As we pulled from the curb a familiar face came around the corner. Irene had gone to the drugstore for a morning coffee. A minute later and we'd have missed her, and it probably would have been the end of our courtship.

Irene never really enjoyed climbing, and she enjoyed rappelling even less. (In those days rappelling was by the rather painful Dulfersitz method.) But she made the trip and managed to flash a smile and a warm goodnight kiss (she rated a high 10 in kissing) to keep our relationship alive and moving forward.

We had been going together for many weeks (Irene would know exactly; I never kept count on those things), and marriage was on my mind -- actually it had come to my mind on that first date, and nothing had transpired to do anything but reinforce that thought.

It was a pleasant spring night. My cousin Steve had come to New York for an interview, and the three of us had dined together, then driven to Newark airport for Steve's flight home. We were back at Irene's apartment listening to the late night news over the radio. There was an announcement and small story about the close of Roseland Ballroom -- the last and greatest of the dime-a-dance palaces. In nostalgia and warmth of the moment, I opened my mouth to say:

"Well, Irene, I'll give you a dime if you'll dance with me."

But out came the words:

"Well Irene, I'll give you a dime if you'll marry me."

I was aware of the slip immediately, but was happy to let it stand. And even happier when Irene, after checking that I knew what I had said, took me up on it. I think I have paid her the dime several times, but just in case I have forgotten, I'll pay her another one every once in a while.

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