"I GUESS I’LL SETTLE FOR THE NICE GUY"

DEAR MAGS,

It’s me, Mag Pie—aka your twelve year old self. Looks like you’ve made some mistakes. Maybe you’ve forgotten what mom always told us: actions have consequences.

The future doesn’t look very promising from what I see—I’m telling it to you straight—and it’ll be all your fault if you don’t fix things ASAP. 

You know what I’m talking about. You let that nice boy go; you said he was boring and dismissed him as a ‘shrimp’ among other things. You thought you could do better—thought that there’d be more options for you, right? Well guess what, Mags! There are no other options for us! The future destined us to be alone! Shrivelled up cat ladies!

I don’t want that for us. 

Remember we always dreamed of having a lifelong lover? I know you still want that too! So you better do something before the clock strikes twelve, you feel me?!

Or. We’re. DOOMED!

Love, Mag Pie. 

xoxo.

***

Hahhh, what the fuck?

   Her twelve year old self? Please—spare her! Who was playing a prank on her? Had to be one of the neighbours’ kids—an early April fools or something… But how did they know her childhood nickname or the fact that she rejected that Shrimp? Coincidence? No…She kept her private life discreet. As far as her neighbours knew she was a hermit that lived away from action. That perception was indeed true, but there were rare occasions where she went out on blind dates. She didn’t particularly like meeting the love of her life through this means but it was the closest she’d ever get to interacting with men. 

   You see, she worked at a boutique and most of the customers were women; all her friends too were either married or in serious relationships, which meant that they weren’t at all interested—or didn’t have the need to—call her up late at night and insist that she accompany them to some social gathering with tons of single folks, and booze.

Back in their prime, Trish, Deena—her two college friends—and herself went out to parties and flirted up guys and asked for their numbers. If they were lucky, the guys would even pull them in by the waist and make out with them in the corner while the music and disco lights blared. She was never that lucky though. At those parties she was sipping on grape juice, sometimes pineapple juice, and watching her two crazy friends have the time of their lives. No guy had ever really approached her. One guy did, but he’d mistaken her for someone else. Maybe it was her clothes. Maybe they weren't scanty enough. She wasn’t going to wear lewd outfits though; she couldn’t. Her mom would probably give up her place in Heaven just to come back down to earth to haunt her forever and she couldn’t let that happen. 

   When Trish and Denna finally settled down and got married, Mags was starting to get anxious that her time to find her lifelong lover was running out. And now that she lost her only means of meeting men, she decided to take matters into her own hands and signed up begrudgingly on a dating website called: DESPERATE DATERS. COM. She was matched with a handful of guys and as of recently she was matched with Dennis Turner, a thirty year old data entry worker at the neighbouring town's---Sunny Brocks---car dealership.  

Dennis was bland to say the least. He wore a chequered shirt tucked into black jeans, had thick round glasses, and talked about his love for seagulls and the seaside, and how much he enjoyed people watching. He never made eye contact with her, just kept talking to the wall beside her. She found that off-putting, like he wasn’t confident in himself. He was tall, she would give him that, but he was a skinny fellow and he reminded her of a shrimp. 

   She had envisioned her lover to be a meatier man with sharper features and who was completely different from her: who’d make the first move confidently and firmly, who wouldn’t cower by the sight of her, who would look her in the eyes and profess all the deep swarming thoughts he kept to himself. She was already bad enough with opening up to men—she didn’t need someone who was a coward or someone who rambled on and on just because silence was awkward. So she rejected him, mid date—when Dennis was waxing on about the clients that come into the car dealership requesting refunds for cars they’d just made a down payment on. He commented and said: what self-respecting person makes a decision and changes their mind halfway? Where's the accountability?

“Look, Dennis…I think this is getting kind of boring…” She said this with an awkward smile and dipping eyebrows.

   “O-oh?” Dennis’ shoulders slumped noticeably downwards, his head slightly cowering.

“Not that you can’t be interesting and fun to someone else. Just not interesting and fun to me, you know?” 

“R-right…haha.”

   She cleared her throat and continued. “Also, a little tip, don’t ramble on about your job on the first date—especially if you have nothing positive to say. It’s a major turn-off.” 

   With that closing statement she snatched up her inexpensive glossy black purse from the table and clacked out of the coffee shop without a second glance back. And now, two weeks later, she received this letter from Mag Pie, her supposed twelve year old self. 

   If she were to accept this as real, then that would mean time travel exists, right? But that would be impossible; time travel was impossible! She shook her head off the crazy idea and tore the letter to millions of pieces, tossed it in the kitchen’s trash can, and went about her day not thinking much of it.

   Two days later though, she received another letter, addressed from the same person. 

DEAR MAGS,

I guess I haven’t made myself very clear: 

THIS IS REAL. 

IT’S NOT SOME PRANK LETTER, GOT IT?! 

THIS IS OUR FUTURE YOU’RE PLAYING WITH. SO ACCEPT THE FACT THAT TIME TRAVEL EXISTS AND GET WITH IT! 

UNDO WHAT YOU’VE DONE AND MAKE UP WITH THAT NICE BOY OR ELSE WE’LL REALLY BE SHRIVELLED UP CAT LADIES! 

EVERYTHING WE’VE EVER DREAMED OF WITH LOVE IS IN YOUR HANDS. (CURSED BE WHOEVER DECIDED ON THIS, SERIOUSLY). 

Love, Mag Pie. 

xoxo.

***

There’s no way…

   No, but how did they know what she was thinking?! 

   After a few hours of contemplation and multiple onslaughts of mid-life crises over apple pie, she accepted that maybe Mag Pie, her twelve year old self, was real and somehow communicating with her through letters. She wondered how that worked, but most importantly wondered about her apparently doomed love life. Was Dennis really her only option? 

She had to be sure of this before proceeding with anything further so she wrote Mag Pie a letter of her own and placed it in her mailbox. She remembered a show similar to her situation: one girl communicated with a girl from the past by the use of an old telephone. She thought: maybe if she stuck her letter in the mailbox, it would somehow reach Mag Pie. 

   Her instincts were right because the very next day, she received Mag Pie’s letter.

DEAR MAGS,

Girl, how many times do I have to say it?!

If you don’t make up with Dennis you can kiss our love life down the toilet!

Give him a chance. He’s a nice (and interesting and fun) guy once you get to know him—I promise! I’ve seen our future with him. He’s the type to kiss you goodnight and buy you food without you even asking. 

He even gets hotter! Just give him a few years. And then you’ll get married on a beach in Hawaii because his writing side hustle finally takes off and gets him rich.

Not saying hotness and richness are reasons to reconsider him---that would be kind of shallow---but hey, I need to sell the idea to you as much as possible; and I think you are that shallow (sorry not sorry, babe). But nonetheless he's everything we've ever wanted in a lifelong lover. He's everything we need too. And he's a nice guy who we can always count on. He'll love us forever and he'll grow old with us and even when we're old and wrinkly, he'll still call us beautiful.

So please, go to his place of work and tell him you want a second chance!

P.S: Dennis works at the Sunny Brocks' Car Dealership. (Call a cab because I know you're bad with directions).

Love, Mag Pie. 

xoxo.

                                                        ***

The cab driver stopped in front of the car dealership and sniffed. “Be careful of those salespeople. They’re persistent ones, I tell you.” 

   She didn’t know how to respond to that so she just handed him twelve bucks and slid out the car. “Have a good day, sir,” she mumbled as he drove off. Her mind was preoccupied with how she was going to grovel to Dennis for a second chance. There was no way he’d willingly accept her woes without some resistance first. She wasn’t looking forward to that; it was much easier to do the rejecting than to receive it…

   The automatic doors whooshed open and she took a reluctant step forward, keeping her eye on the front desk clerk. “Hello there!” a sunny voice said and then a smiling young man was right in front of her. A salesperson…Dear God. 

   “Sorry. Not interested.” She tried to swerve around him but he mimicked her steps. She was trapped.

   “Oh, why don’t you give me a chance? I haven’t even shown you our cars yet—”

   “I’m not here to see cars.”

   The young man was stumped, like he’d never heard that excuse before. “Then what are you here for, ma’am?”

   “My future. I don’t want to end up becoming a shrivelled up cat lady, you know?”

   “A what?”

   She laughed and shooed away her words. “Doesn’t matter. You probably won’t get it anyway. Well, if you’ll excuse me.” She shoved past him and he didn’t protest. He let her be.

   “But the cars…” she heard him mumble.

   “Another customer will come, I promise.”

   She slapped a hand on the front desk's countertop a few seconds later and greeted the front desk clerk with a jolly hi!

   “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

   “Can I see Dennis Turner? The data entry worker with glasses.”

   “Yes, yes. And who are you in relation to Dennis?” The clerk gave her a sceptical look. 

   Mags cleared her throat, getting ready to lie through her teeth. “Um, I’m-I’m his wife---Maggie. I need to discuss something important with him but he won’t pick up my calls. Typical husband am I, right?” She nervous-laughed, wondering if the clerk bought what she was dishing out. Surprisingly, the clerk nodded and smiled, dialling numbers on the office phone beside her.

   “I totally get it,” the clerk said before the call picked up. “Hi, yes, Dennis? This is Sasha from the front desk. Your wife, Maggie, is here to see you. Said it’s important and how you haven’t returned any of her calls. I suggest you come down to see her.”

   “My wife?” Mags heard Dennis’ muffled voice say in understandable confusion. “O-okay! Tell her I’ll be on my way!” 

   The clerk motioned over to the lounge area which was so white she had to squint. “You can wait over there. He’ll be down in a minute.” 

   The wait felt like a century. She kept tapping her feet against the marble flooring, rubbing her sweaty hands together on her lap as the millions of potential scenarios of how this whole confrontation would play out, swarmed through her mind. 

   “Maggie?” Dennis said. She whipped her head to the left and there he was: the same chequered shirt tucked into the same black jeans; his glasses sitting at the tip of his nose, like it was on the brink of falling off. His same slightly dishevelled hair. She’d now noticed how soft and fluffy his hair looked. 

   She couldn’t speak. It was like her voice was stuck at the back of her throat, struggling to break free. 

   “So, you’re my wife now?”

   She shook her head. “I…I’m sorry.”

   He scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry? You mean for last time, right? It’s fine, really…What you said made sense. It was honest. And I can respect that, at least.”

   She shook her head again. “No, I was stupid. I didn’t even give you a fair chance. I ended the date halfway through.”

   “I understand—”

   “I don’t! I mean, I’m the one that signed up for a blind date. I signed up because I was desperate to find the love of my life. I was too arrogant—dismissed good people, like you, just because I thought that I would always have more chances. I realised recently that I can’t take things for granted like this.

   “Not anymore. I need to learn to be patient. Take things slow. Try to understand that good things take time. If I’d given you a fair chance maybe I’d get to see how great of a guy you actually are.”

   “I don’t think I’m that great,” he admitted, his awkward smile turning into a frown. “I guess that’s why I’ve been single forever. I’m boring and uninteresting. I complain too much—”

   “Everyone does. I’m sorry I said that before. I totally relate to work woes too. I would never really voice those complaints out loud, you know? I’d probably just keep it to myself. Which usually ends with me exploding.”

   “I see…Um, did you just come here to apologise? If so, I forgive you…So, no need to feel bad. You can go on conscience free and live your life—”

   “I don’t think you understand. I can’t just 'live my life' anymore. I’ve done enough of that, seriously. I want to live for someone else for once. And someone told me I’d ruin everything if I let you go. I want to see if that’s true…

   “Do you mind giving me a second chance, Dennis?”

   Dennis' eyes were wide; it was the kind of eyes you gave someone when your mind went blank and you didn’t know what to say. “Um…Is…Is that what you really want?”

   She put a hand on his forearm, dipped her eyebrows and said: “Yes. That’s what I want.”

   “O-okay then.”

   “How about a make-up date after you’re finished working? You get off at five, right?”

   He nodded shyly.

   “I’ll wait for you then.”

   “Are you sure?”

   “It’s just an hour. I can wait. I’ve waited for this moment for a long time anyway.”

   “What’s that moment?” he questioned.

   She smiled. “Waiting for a nice guy who I can spend the rest of my life with. And I think that's you.” 

***

DEAR MAGS,

I see that things are going well for you and Dennis. He finally got rid of those chequered shirts I see ;)

Anyway, I thought I'd write you one last letter---a farewell letter if you will. But more than a farewell, I want to say how proud I am that we finally got what we've always wanted out of love. Those romantic night strolls along the shoreline; kissing under the stars; a guy that treats us right.

I knew we had it in us. You just needed a little nudge---a warning rather---in the right direction.

I wish you many more years of happiness and excitement.

P.S: Spoiler alert- the future looks like hell of a lot of both. We won.

Farewell Mags.

Love, Mag Pie. 

xoxo.