The Women of the Dungeon

How is one supposed to respond when their sister tells them she got engaged to someone she’s only dated for two weeks? Because she tells me over the phone, I don’t have to cover my blown-out eyes. After a mental double take, I force a smile and congratulations. I have never been so relieved for my waitressing gig. My impending shift gives me a reason to end the conversation.

With my purse on my shoulder, I told my sister goodbye and left. As I power walk, I pass a couple hugging. Then, I see another pair next to them making out in broad daylight. I looked across the street to avert my eyes. Then, I was greeted with a hand-holding fest. I scanned the crowd to get a look, to make sure I wasn’t the only person walking alone.

When I turned the corner, things leveled up. From the young man on his knee with a ring box in his hands to the fresh couple jingling keys in front of a “SOLD” sign, the only thing my neighbors did was make all the “right” relationship moves. The Kellers had their wedding in the middle of the street, while the Feeneys delivered their newborn child at the park.

Once I ran the gauntlet, I was rewarded a shitty shift at work of attending to date after date after date. With my apron tied, I ran to my manager who was also my boyfriend. You didn’t see that one coming, did you?

“Guess what happened,” I said.

“What?” He replied while setting tables.

“My sister is engaged.” I scoffed at the news even though I heard it before.

He froze and put down the bundle of silverware. “Wow,” he added and returned to his work.

“‘Wow?’ That’s it?” I followed him around the tables. “”Isn’t it horrible? My sister, my own blood, is about to marry a man she’s only dated for two weeks. She’s ruining her life.”

“Yup,” he added while tossing me a pile of menus.

I barely caught them all before asking “Why so short?”

“It’s nothing.”

“No, no, no. It’s not nothing.” We weaved through the chairs. “What’s up with you?”

“You!” He threw down the bin of silverware onto the counter.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You always judge people for getting married, having kids, buying a house.”

“No, I’m judging the rate at which they do those things. Two weeks!”

“So what? If you want something, then you take it.”

“But we’ve been dating two years now. And we’re not married. We’re not like the rest of the world. We’re pacing ourselves, not jumping off the cliffs of commitment.”

“You are,” he muttered.

“Excuse me?” I questioned as the first patrons entered.

“Shut up,” the host swore through her teeth, while passing me. “Hello, how many?” She asked the young couple who met one minute before.

I dragged my boyfriend into the kitchen.

“What are you saying?” I questioned him, with arms crossed.

“You’re the one pacing yourself. I’m not.”

“But how can one of us pace ourselves but the other not?”

“Okay, fine. I don’t want to pace ourselves. I want all the stuff you seemingly don’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I bought a ring after our third date.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes,” he started as he dug into his pocket. “I did.” A velvet ring box sat in his palm.

My jaw moved up and down, but no words came out. Someone must’ve turned up the thermostat.

“Will you --”

“Stop!” He froze mid-lunge before his knee could hit the floor and before he could take that iconic stance. He stood back up and threw the box in the trash can next to him.

“Don’t waste it.” I said, reaching into the bin.

“What can I do with a soiled ring?”

“Use it for someone else.” I gulped before adding “Or give me some time.”

“We don’t have much time left. You’re already 20.”

“Almost 20.”

“Whatever.”

I set the small box on the counter next to him. “I’m gonna get back to work now.” I scurried off a little faster than I should have to be considerate. I’m not good with love.

As I waited for a couple to be seated in my section, two police officers came in and asked the host, “May you point us in the direction of Angela Prospect?” The host ratted me out, and they closed in on their target. “Miss Prospect, you are under arrest for denying a proposal.”

I forgot to tell you that saying no to marriage is illegal in this town, didn’t I?

***

I follow the officers out of the restaurant and into the back seat of their car. Of course, my mother happened to be there, faking surprise. She knows I’ll never marry. We venture down to the station. 

They guide me down staircase after staircase, until we find ourselves in a medieval dungeon. I’m not joking. They preserved the very jail cells from the 1400s. Color me impressed. The rats and the roaches and the iron bars forged by the local blacksmith.

Once I get past my new furnishings, I note my new neighbors. Young women who all look like me. Not scared, but rather fed up. Looking at the lack of prim posture and crossed legs, I imagine us staging a riot to break out and dismantle the patriarchy from the dungeon upward.

I’m led into the cell in the corner. The gate shuts. Now, I hate to make light of imprisonment, but the sound was so satisfying. Boom! The theatrics are sublime.

“Hey, I’m Holly,” the woman across the way introduces herself.

“Angela.”

“Angela. Angela,” she repeats to herself, not to intimidate me but in an attempt to memorize. “What are you in for?”

I freeze, surprised by the possibility of others being in here for something other than denying a proposal for marriage. “I didn’t want to get married.”

“Damn, another one,” Holly adds, queuing the others to sigh.

I hate to disappoint them, but I love to feel at home.