I’m glad I never met her family, except remotely, the pictures
she posted and that one time when they ambushed me on my cell phone for wishing
he happy birthday.
Others have gone with her to meet them, I’m sure, sat on the
living room couch, enduring their stares, aware of their ultimate question: “are
you fucking our daughter?”
To which me and Corso remedied by asking, “Where is the
bathroom?”
Oh, those fool hearty souls that make that trek into the
family plot, who simply have to endure what is said and unsaid, as the family
looks them up and down, to gauge if they are worthy.
Certainly they must believe we do not have marriage in mind,
this trip a mere formality, to give them a glimpse of our character, that kind
of person who has access to her, which raises the next question are we any
good, and how on earth did we manage to make their daughter come?
It is all in their eyes, the intensity, if not daggers than
something nearly as deadly, and we on the couch wondering just when she will
come back to rescue us.
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