HUSBAND, TEMPORARILY

 The stranger looks at me like I have lost my head.

I wonder if I have lost my head.

Why am I offering a total stranger, in a parking lot of a courthouse, marriage.

 “I do not have time for this, or change.” he says the words slowly, like he thinks I am stupid.

My immediate reaction is to scoff at him.

“I do not need your change and of course you don’t have time, you’re about to be deported.”

He looks at me like I slapped him, and I recoil, the urge to take back the words are strong but they are already out there.

 This… this is why I don’t talk to people, somehow I end up offending them.

“Let’s start over, my name is Isaac Valentine. And I need a husband.” I put my hand out for a shake, think better of it and let it drop by my side.

This time he looks at me in disgust.

 “So, a prostitute.”

“What?! Wait what?? How did you get that from what I said??”

God.

This was worse than embarrassing. Maybe I should wait for Court to find me a man, but I don’t have time till lunch tomorrow.

 “I’m not interested.”

“No, I don’t want to sleep with you, I would never sleep with you. I want to marry you.”

He takes a deep breath, opens his mouth to respond, and maybe he remembers he doesn’t have time to talk to me, because he starts to leave.

 “You’ll be deported in ten days… if you don’t find work or get married. You were skeptical about finding work, and here I am, on a gold platter, marriage to a citizen, you get to stay longer.” I say quickly, following behind him.

 He pauses,

“What do you get out of it?”

“What?”

“This deal, you say it like I benefit a lot. What do you gain from this marriage?”

I sigh, this was going well right? I don’t do a lot of bargaining with people, so I can’t tell if I am wasting my time.

 “A long story, but I need a husband. So my family doesn’t keep hooking me up.”

“Just say you don’t want hook up.”

“It’s their way of showing they accept me.”

He blinks, as if the words I spoke didn’t register to him. I wonder if I had a translation app that would say it in Russia.

 “I don’t like you.”

I blanch, turning a shade of red that resembles the angry bird, maybe I was turning into an angry bird also.

 “I don’t like you either, mister. I have plenty of picks.”

“Great, find them.”

Ugh. How could one person make me feel like being very violent, outside a court house??

 “You don’t have to like me, it’ll be a fake marriage anyway.”

“No, I don’t like you. But I don’t like men either.”

Of course he’s straight. I knew he was from the very beginning, but desperation is a sad little thing.

 “That’s exactly why this is perfect. We don’t have any obligations towards each other, just show up married, and you get to stay here, and my family doesn’t have to hook me up with anyone else.”

 He sighs, looking up at the night sky like he was expecting some kind of sign that says this was a bad deal.

 I almost go back to the bad habit of chewing the insides of my cheeks in the time it takes him to think.

 “It’s a win win situation. We fake divorce after a few weeks. None will be wiser.”

“Years, in my case.”

Oh.

I blink.

Years…

I mean, my family would never set me up again, Permanently single Isaac dissections would seize for years.

 Last Saturdays of every month, the Valentine family’s gathering would finally be normal. I could eat quietly and leave quietly.

 I don’t have to say a word ever again.

“Even better.”

He looks at me, really looks at me.

 “You’re strange. What if you find someone you love and want to get married, what happens to me?”

 The laugh that slips out me shocks both of us.

“I’m sorry. It’s just, that would never happen.”

It was a miracle this conversation was even happening.

Marrying someone means you’d have gone out of your way to meet the person ever so often to keep the relationship before getting married.

 Yeah, not interested.

“Let’s talk about this somewhere private.” he says, glancing at the court house as if reminding himself someone was listening.

 I wince.

“Could you wait a bit? I have a drunk driving case, and they haven’t attended to me yet.” I sigh,

 “You’re a drunk.”

“No! Two glasses of wine, that’s all I had.”

He nods like the officer assigned to my case, like he didn’t believe me.

 “Just… that’s my car.” I point to the Valentine EGH 356, my family’s latest invention.

His brows disappear into his hair.

I don’t like driving the car because of the unnecessary attention it brings, only for family functions, or they would bombard me with questions again.

 “Wait by the car, I’ll be out soon.”

He nods.

Upon entering the court room, it occurred to me that I didn’t know his name, and if he disappeared, I would be back to square one.

 So when the officer asked me to pay a fine, I didn’t even argue, I pay, making sure it wouldn’t leave a record, I rush outside.

 He isn’t there.

My shoulders drop.

Walking back to the car, I find him on the other side of the car.

 “You’re still here.”

He nods, stubbing out a cigarette.

“I didn’t bring a car. Are you cleared to drive?”

Nodding, still in awe that he was still here.

“It has to be somewhere private.” I mutter to myself as I start the car.

He hums, eyes going over the console.

Court had taken plenty of pictures for her social media inside this car, and even I think it’s cool. Arnold had outdone himself with the designs.

 The car hums to life, a sleek sound that also drew attention. I can’t wait to shed it.

“What do you do for work?” he asks me,

I glance at him and back at the road, his hair looks like he’s ran his fingers through it countless times. This must be really important to him then.

 “Comic book artist.”

My face turns a deep shade of red.

There’s not much people in my life to tell this to, but my family call it a hobby, so I don’t expect much from him.

 “Neat.”

Yes, yes, a fancy and short word for, you’re lucky you have daddy’s money or you’d be starving.

 “You?”

Then I want to take it back, because he’s here since he doesn’t have one of those.

“Don’t answer that.”

He hums, and we fall into an awkward silence.

What do people talk about during their dates exactly?

 “What’s your name?”

He takes a deep breath like I offended him.

“My parents are coming to have lunch with us tomorrow, I would like to know the name of the man I am supposed to be married to, before then.”

 He lets out a string of cusses in Russia, they make my ears bleed.

“You never mentioned I would see your parents so soon.”

I wince.

“They sprung it up on me, I’m sorry.”

He sighs again.

 “Ivan Romanov.”

His accent rolls all over every word, and I nod to it, committing it to memory.

 “Now then, who proposed to whom?”

He snorts like it would be obvious,

 “You did, you begged me to marry you, following me every where I went, whining and asking me to marry you.”

 He was telling the truth, only very exaggerated, so why do I feel offended?

Maybe because he’s saying it like he wouldn’t be caught dead asking a gay man to marry him.

 Did I just ask a homophobic straight man to marry me??