The Unwanted Marriage

The very highly finished mahogany table was cold on my trembling hands. My relatives were seated in front of me, faces twisted into practiced complacency, the smiles strained, set on the parents of my so-called 'bride-to-be.'

It was one of those situations you view out of a history film, the only difference being we were greeted with the dignified silence of an upper-class dining room instead of a quill and parchment. An arranged marriage. The words still echoed in my mind as a grim joke.

How many times had I pleaded with my parents, explained, even shouted, that I did have a girlfriend? A woman I loved, fiercely and irrevocably. The possibility of being bound to another, a stranger, made me shiver with icy fury. Whatever this woman was, desperate enough to take on this ancient trade-off, I vowed to torment her life.

"Mrs. Alcantara, my sincerest apologies for my daughter's tardiness," Mrs. Andal's awkward politeness pushed through my simmering rage. "Jarros, where's MJ? Do call her."

Jarros, her husband, got up to stand, his face set in a hint of annoyance. His movement was checked by his wife's gentle hand. "No need, she's here."

We sat with our backs to the door, and the Andals stood facing it. I turned around, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination. Two women entered. One, a vision of beautifully crafted glamour, was dressed in a red sheath that hugged every curve, her blonde hair beautifully styled, her face a work of beautifully painted cosmetics. The other.

She was the very opposite. She was wearing faded, filthy white jeans and a peasant top, intentionally sloppy-looking, her face uncovered, without even the smallest degree of artifice.

"Who is she?" I asked myself, peering at her.

"MJ!" Mrs. Andal's high-pitched, relieved voice was heard echoing from the room.

The jeans girl appeared, her face a perfect imitation of a blank. She floated over, an unspoken self-confidence that was even more disconcerting than the professional cool of the other woman.

'Okay. So, she's the one.'

"Mr. and Mrs. Alcantara, sorry I'm late," she said, her voice smooth and controlled.

It's okay, dear. Have a seat," my mother replied, her voice insincere.

"Come, MJ, meet my son Lyron Renz Alcantara," my dad insisted, his tone brooking no argument.

"Megan Jessie Andal, but you can call me MJ," she said, extending her hand. I took it, our handshake firm, a silent expression of my frustration. I was aware that my dad would murder me if I made an unwanted scene.

Now that you have been properly introduced, let's proceed with the discussion of your upcoming marriage," my father continued, his voice heavy with unspoken expectations.

I gazed at MJ, searching for a flicker of nervousness, perhaps even a hint of excitement. What I received instead was an arched eyebrow, and then a covert challenge hurled in my direction. I turned away, a queasy discomfort building in my belly.

She's not like that at all.

The conversation afterwards was a mix of dates, locations, and arrangements. The Andals and my parents huddled together, their voice thick with the undertone of forced cordiality. Finally, the sitting came to an end. The Andals and my parents stood up and departed, leaving MJ and me alone.

"Gonna stand there and stare at me all day? I might just melt," she replied, her voice crisp, a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. I snapped my head away, my cheeks flushing.

"Tsk," I managed to get out, a low growl of irritation.

"I want you to understand, If you think I wanted this arranged marriage, you are very wrong." she told me firmly and clearly before she turned around and walked off, leaving me dazed.

"But nevertheless, you agreed. What is the difference?" i complained to myself before getting out of the restaurant.