Not So Nice Guy

by R.S. Grey

I sigh heavily. “Nicholas, this is just a dance. I’m your teacher, and while my job is trying at times, you know what’s worse than dealing with checked-out seniors who don’t care about English? Prison. Prison is worse.”

Their seduction strategy boils down to squirrel psychology: to be attractive is to be bright and shiny.

I’m forced to converse with other people. It’s so annoying. I have to complete my sentences and everything or they get confused.

There are Blue Apron dinners in the fridge going to waste because I’m not going to cook meals meant for two people and eat them all by myself like a caricature of a lovelorn schmuck.

As Shakespeare said, Shit’s fucked, yo. No point in trying to correct it now.”

I’ve been a good girl, sitting across from him all morning long, completing full sentences when what I really wanted to do was toss my scrambled eggs and bacon at the wall and leap over the table at him.

I wonder how many mini M&Ms I’d have to force into my stomach before a doctor would determine my body is made up of more chocolate than water.

Maybe before this he was going to fire us, but now we’ll be spared thanks to that flaky graham cracker crust he’s licking off his fingers. You can thank me later.

This feels like a real proposal…except the car next to ours is blaring rap music so loudly their bass is shaking our windows.

We have a manila-colored marriage license in hand and strict orders to wait 72 hours before tying the knot. This is news to me. I sort of thought we’d get the license, hop over to the courthouse, and have this all finished by dinner time. 72 hours feels like a lifetime—certainly enough time for this sugar high to wear off and for us to realize how utterly irrational this all is. I don’t want to think.

It’s one thing to propose marriage and another thing entirely to call me beautiful and funny. I’m not sure which one is more important.

“It’s just that I only set the table for three,” my mother says, as if they only keep three plates in the entire house.

As if reading my thoughts, my mom glances down at our hands and her expression makes me look down as well. She looks so horrified I briefly think, Oh no, are we accidentally having sex or something? No, just holding hands like the loose, immoral people we are.

It’s not that the table is that small, but their judgement takes up a lot of space.

I’d fling myself onto Ian’s back, hook my arms around his neck, and tell him to continue on with practice. I wouldn’t get in the way.