Marriage is something precious.  It should be as precious to you as the ring is to Gollum.  I’m not religious or anything, so this doesn’t really weigh down on me, but I do have morals.  I, as any other person living in this world, would like to live with someone I love and choose.  I don’t want to be stuck with some nagging, old wife that complains about the way I wash the dishes or mow the lawn.  I cherish marriage, yet here I am, getting engaged to someone I met on Tinder one month ago.  Just to recap, this is what happened about half and hour ago.

.     .     .

“Oh my God.  Dan, are you freaking serious?!”

Eyebrows lifting, I whip my head up from my deliciously, exquisite filet mignon towards the voice coming directly in front of my face.  “What am I serious about?  What is it?” I ask, scrunching my eyebrows at Sarah, my date.  Hands reaching, I quickly take a sip of my Domaine Leroy Richebourg Grand Cru of 1949 as I sit and patiently wait for her to respond.  Not to brag or anything, but when you’re drinking a wine that costs about $5,900, you’ve got to take your time and just enjoy it.

She slightly shifts her hand away from the slice of chocolate cake as she says, “Yes, yes, yes, and a thousand times yes!”

Eyes twitching, I laugh nervously, confused as to what she’s so excited about.  I cock my head to the side as I say, “Uh, dear.  Would you mind explaining what exactly you’re so thrilled about?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

No, not really.

“You can drop the act now.  I know you’re proposing!” Sarah quickly whisks her hand out to my face, causing bits of the cake to fly around.  She’s holding something in between her index finger and her thumb, but I can’t quite catch it.  She’s moving her hand along to the rhythm of her bouncing; all I can pick up of it is that it’s a circle shape, no larger than a quarter. 

Wait… I feel like I just misheard her.  I mean, I must have.  She can’t possibly think that I’m proposing to her!  Ha!  Just the thought of that makes me want to jump off of  a cliff.  I snork out a laugh as I ask, “Dear, what are you talking about?  Did you hit your head on the way in?”

“Dan, really, you can stop acting like Lt. Columbo.  I already know that you’re proposi-”

.     .     .

After that, I start to choke on my filet mignon and almost die of a heart attack.  Of course, I run to the nearest and safest place, the bathroom.  To be honest, I regret surviving.  I wish that food would’ve clogged my throat so that I could’ve suffocated and ended the nightmare that has only just begun.  Even better, drinking hundreds of those Domaine Leroy Richebourg Grand Cru of 1949 doesn’t sound bad at all.  Only problem is that it will cost about $590,000 and probably my health.  As dumb and obnoxious as I may seem, I don’t have the brain of an onion; my grandma calls me that.

Anyways, getting off topic.  As smart as I am,  I can’t deny that I’m currently thinking about smashing my head onto the toilet seat that my buttox is sitting on.  That way, maybe Sarah won’t want to stay with me anymore.  That’s not the way to go, so I’m contemplating as to what to do, but it’s harder than it looks.  Just five minutes ago, I heard one of the strangest sounds come out of a person.  Now the whole place smells like a pile of rotten onions.  The sound also sounded like a drowning dolphin.  Wait… do dolphins even drown?  They are technically fishes, right?  But don’t they have the blow hole?  Maybe I’m just getting it confused with whales.  Speaking of  whales, when Sarah saw the ring in the cake, she looked as happy as a dog does when his owner finally gives him any sort of attention.  I would know that because for most of my life, I’ve been the dog. 

Oh yeah, can we also acknowledge the fact that there was a RING in a piece of cake at The American Cut Steakhouse?!  How the heck does that happen!?  I swear I’ve never touched a ring in my life, and I don’t plan to for at least the next decade.  But alas, as comfy as this toilet seat may seem for now, it feels like there are ants crawling in my legs.  Biceps engaging, I push myself up from the seat and pull up my pants.  I take in a deep breath, relieving me only a fraction of the stress placed upon me, and then I start to walk out towards my doom.  Don’t worry, I wash my hands.

Once I get to our table, I find Sarah still there at the same place I left her.  Only this time, she doesn’t have that obnoxiously, huge grin plastered on her face.  Her eyes continuously shift around, filling up with tears.  She keeps biting her brittle nails, causing them to split even more.  It’s a habit of hers to bite her nails before she’s about to start ranting off.  So, before I have the chance to leave unnoticed, Sarah spots me. 

“Dan!” she says, as she runs up to me, her high-heels clacking, drawing the attention of everyone else around us.  “Dan, are you alright?  Do you want to go home?  If you want I can call the ambulance.  Or if you prefer, we ca-”

“Yes, yes.  I’m okay.”  Eyes shifting, face flushing with heat, I look down at her right hand to find the small, silver ring on her ring finger.  “Um, hey.  About that ring…”

“Oh, no need to worry.  I said yes and I’ll do all the planning.”

“Oh… great.”  I start to feel lightheaded.  It is as if my head is blown up like a hot balloon; it is starting to feel numb.  I can’t think straight, and I start to feel the wine from before tickle itself up from my stomach.  “Hey, Sarah.  Maybe it’s best if I go home.”

“Yes, of course.  Oh my gosh, I’m so happy, though!  Thank you so much!  Although, don’t you think it’s a bit too early?  I mean, I’m fine with it!  If you want, we can start thinking about children!”

My head rolls backwards, followed by my eyes.  I want to say that this is the end, but it isn’t quite like death; more like the beginning of a catastrophe.

10 years later…

“Dan!  How many times do I have to tell you, you’re not supposed to dry the dishes right after you clean them!  You’re supposed to let them dry!  God, you’re so annoying!”

-Agata Montanini