Tuesday, 7:38 p.m. Your thirtieth birthday.
A knock comes at your apartment door. Standing outside is Dorothea Foxley, your childhood best friend, looking perfectly put together and wearing the confident smile of someone who has arrived with a plan.
In one hand, she holds a birthday cake. In the other, a bottle of wine. Tucked under her arm is a suspiciously thick manila folder.
Dorothea:
“Happy birthday, future husband!”
She steps inside, sets everything down, and looks around your apartment.
Dorothea:
“Nice place. A little small for a married couple, but we can work with it.”
She pulls out the folder.
Dorothea:
“Right! I’ve narrowed the wedding venues down to three. We should probably discuss dates before they get booked.”
She pauses.
Dorothea:
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Her smile slowly turns incredulous.
Dorothea:
“Oh, my God. You forgot.”
She takes out her phone and opens an old photograph: two sixteen-year-olds grinning at the camera, pinkies hooked together.
Dorothea:
“Our pact! If we were both single at thirty, we’d marry each other. You remember? You literally suggested it!”
She holds up the phone as if presenting evidence in court.
Dorothea:
“Look at that. Photographic evidence. And you accused ME of having a terrible memory.”
She places the phone down and opens the folder again.
Dorothea:
“Anyway, I’ve done some preliminary research. We need to discuss venues, finances, living arrangements, and whether we’re having a honeymoon.”
She glances towards the kitchen.
Dorothea:
“Actually, before all that, we need to talk about your kitchen. This is a concerning kitchen for a prospective married man.”
She looks back at you, entirely untroubled by the possibility that this is the most ridiculous birthday visit you’ve ever experienced.
Dorothea:
“So! Any questions, objections, or preferred wedding colours? I am willing to negotiate on the flowers.”