Mr. Sheriff Woody.

It is a truth nationwide acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of good twenty five years, must be in want of a husband.



What is it the nineties?

My thoughts exactly.

I wonder if my parents are modern or backwards, that they had coaxed, and almost bribed me on a date with a man whose parents they most admire. They still believe a good set of parents, with pints of good upbringing can make a "good man".

Only if they knew how I turned out.

So here I am, placing the menus on the table of the restaurant my father owns, which I must add is mysteriously empty on a saturday night. He says he hasn't booked the entire restaurant just for us, but I as well as you dear reader, know the case.

They really want me to like this guy. They showed me his picture, and I'll say he is an eight, but who am I to judge, a seven?

I was kidnapped and locked here in this room to make "preparations'' for our big date, and you might think I have a lot to do, but it literally is just laying up the menus, which is futile because I know exactly what I am going to order, the red sauce pasta, my mom's recipe. And I also know what he is supposed to order, ravioli which was my recipe, which I was supposed to tell him. I hardly doubt I will.

He entered in a suit pant, and thanks to the eerily empty restaurant, he didn't have to look for me, in blue one piece, because red is not really my colour. Though the way he looked in the suit, I wondered if I was underdressed.

We met with a 'hello' and he waited for me to sit before he sat himself. Such chivalry is either fake or too ideal. I pray none from him.

I ordered red sauce pasta and he ordered, after swiftly fake looking at the menu, ravioli.

The waiter, Ramu Kaka had a brightest grin on his face, "Ahh, the two most finest dishes of this restaurant" he cheered and went away to take the order. 

Oh yes! I was on a date with a man my parents wanted me to marry, and a man I consider my uncle, was waiting on our table. If there could be any more pressure, please bring it on, since we don't seem like a human with complicated life choices to make anymore.

I smiled hesitantly, and sensing the tension of our internal struggle of what to talk about, was about to consume this already awkward meet into the wilderness of it, I uttered "The red pasta is my mom's recipe. And the ravioli is mine." I swear I don't know why I said that. Honestly.

He smiled. "I know. My parents made sure of it that I know. Oh no, no no, they made sure that I learned it, by heart."

And we laughed. 

And as rapidly the tension raised, it befall on us again as the truth of reality settled on the table between us.

"I wish we didn't meet this way." He uttered, sipping his water.

"I know right, it would have been better to meet you online, talk to you, and take it to date if we wanted to, where we were not really under the pressure of not rejecting each other." 

He snickered in his glass.

"By the way, I am sorry to hear about your father's heart attack a few weeks back." He gulped, having nothing in his mouth this time.

"And I am sorry to hear about your mom's cancer. How is she now, by the way?"

"Like any other cancer patient."

We sipped our water again.

The food arrived, the hypnotic aroma of it reached out to our noses, diluting the tension in us into water in our mouths. So without further ado, we digged in.

"This ravioli is really nice. And I assure you, my parents didn't ask me to say this, it's all me."

Always a pleasure to listen to a cute guy appraise your recipe.

"By the way, you know, we have met before." He said. 

He kept dabbing his mouth with tissue, to keep his mouth clean even while he ate.

God please don't let my clumsy self show too fast. Please don't let my clumsy self show too fast.

And so, I picked a tissue too.

"Really? Wow! Though I hardly met many of my parent's friends or their families. Since the time I can remember faces, I was away from them, first hostel, then college and then job. Sadly, father's bad health brought us together. And sorry, I don't really remember meeting you."

"Well, technically, you didn't. See what happened was, I left my beloved Sheriff Woody at your house, when I was what six or seven I guess. And you came home the next day, and you were probably angry at your parents for some reason, so you took the one thing that didn't belong to you and threw it away from your window in anger. I was by your house to pick my Woody up when I saw you do it. I practically hated you for a very long time."

"Oh my god, I am so sorry. I seriously don't remember anything like that. And if it's any consolation, I don't throw things in anger anymore."

He shrugged.

                         *********

"It a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of good fortune, must be in a want of wife." 

"Mom! What is it, the nineties?" He asked.

"I am just saying. Meet her, she is nice. Who knows you'll end up liking her."

"And if I didn't like her?"

"Then don't."

"Maa she is clearly a seven. I don't know if I like her."

"Don't you get too proud on yourself being an eight young man!"

"Okay, maybe I will meet her if you stop talking in literature classics." He said facepalming himself.

"Not gonna happen." 

He went away shaking his head.

I turned around and looked at a wedding picture by the nightstand, '#Ritsi' written on it, a ship name our friends came up with, which I always hated. Then I looked at Sheriff Woody sitting by that picture, smilingly looking at me, shrugging it's non existent imaginary shrug.

"So you know, just because it worked out for you and dad, doesn't necessarily work for everyone." He said before leaving the house.