Ben comes in like a B-52 on too short of a runway. The car rocks, the door slams, only to open again to free some part of wardrobe trapped by the door.
“Are we late for something”, I ask, jerking my c-max out of battery mode for a full engine take-off. The car jumps like a wounded antelope and we are off.
“Wedding” he says—and indeed, city hall is on the GPS.
“Whose wedding?”
“That would be my wedding”
“That’s what you wearing?” I point to his somewhat Hawaiian shirt.
He looks down as if the whole idea of having a body was new to him.
“I guess we are having an island theme”
“Is this some sort of a hurried affair?”
"Eh?" he says, in Canadian. “I am Canadian”
“That explains everything.” I say.
“My H-1B visa is running out..”
“Do I need to call Immigration?”
“Eh, we are in madly love. Probably wouldn’t be getting married at this point, though. Not big believers in the institution.”
I tumble down Fulton onto civic center and whip the car into the white zone by the steps.
Framed by the city hall stands a young woman in sensible slacks, outraged hands up in the air as if calling the universe to witness, her expression showing early strain of someone in a relationship with one punctually challenged. This union looks real to me.
“you are never going to live this down” I say.
“it’s going to be fine” says the future US citizen, displaying a sign of appealing—while possibly aggravating, given the situation—male laid-backness. Unraveling his lanky frame out of the car, he beams a disarming smile towards his fiancé, who is, as far as I can see, not having any of it.
“Are we late for something”, I ask, jerking my c-max out of battery mode for a full engine take-off. The car jumps like a wounded antelope and we are off.
“Wedding” he says—and indeed, city hall is on the GPS.
“Whose wedding?”
“That would be my wedding”
“That’s what you wearing?” I point to his somewhat Hawaiian shirt.
He looks down as if the whole idea of having a body was new to him.
“I guess we are having an island theme”
“Is this some sort of a hurried affair?”
"Eh?" he says, in Canadian. “I am Canadian”
“That explains everything.” I say.
“My H-1B visa is running out..”
“Do I need to call Immigration?”
“Eh, we are in madly love. Probably wouldn’t be getting married at this point, though. Not big believers in the institution.”
I tumble down Fulton onto civic center and whip the car into the white zone by the steps.
Framed by the city hall stands a young woman in sensible slacks, outraged hands up in the air as if calling the universe to witness, her expression showing early strain of someone in a relationship with one punctually challenged. This union looks real to me.
“you are never going to live this down” I say.
“it’s going to be fine” says the future US citizen, displaying a sign of appealing—while possibly aggravating, given the situation—male laid-backness. Unraveling his lanky frame out of the car, he beams a disarming smile towards his fiancé, who is, as far as I can see, not having any of it.