johnny, down on one knee in the middle of a corner store, ring pop in hand (you’d dropped it a few aisles back, he says), telling you that meeting like this again has to be fate.
and you’re a little confused, because you’ve never met this man, ever.
you’re just here on a snack run. it’s nearly midnight. you want to get home, kick up your feet, get out of these smelly clothes and maybe stop working those damn double shifts—
but people are starting to stare, and you’re sure the last thing he’d want is to make a fool of himself, so you accept his “proposal” with a thin smile (he makes you do it again while he’s paying for your things, ‘like ye mean it, wife’).
and since he paid, you let him wave to the other barely cognizant customers on the way out. let him slip the ring onto your finger under the half-dead light of a street lamp, blabbering on and on about remote honeymoon spots he’s got in mind. ye’ll love ‘em, bonnie. m’sure. let him look at you a little too lovingly (love? are you sure?) before he sucks the candy into his mouth, drool leaking onto your fingers when your senses catch up to you and you yank your hand away with a pop.
he says he’s sorry when he sniffs out that rancid air of fear about you. clasps both of your hands in his, nosing at your fingers as if in prayer. says he’s sorry, you just looked so miserable, and he’ll never do anything like that without asking ever ever ever again.
you feel a little bad. a touch concerned, too. but you likely won’t be seeing him again, so you try and play the part of the dutiful wife so you can get the fuck home without having to feel like you’ve just kicked a hungry dog. johnny—he said his name was johnny—seems happy enough when you say you trust him. happy enough for you to slip your hands away and mention that you have to be up early tomorrow for work, so you have to go.
you’re not sure you like the look in his eyes when you bid him goodnight.
