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The wild purple asters soothe your arms as you lie on the prairie. Your head rests on Issei’s stomach, your body perpendicular to his. The wind strokes your face, blades of Bermuda dancing as dandelion fluff goes with the wind. The sky is gray, like a classic black-and-white noir film; dull, like the butter knife he uses to spread jam on his toast on lazy mornings.
“I think it’s going to rain soon,” you say.
“Then we’ll make a run for it,” he murmurs, tracing small circles on your scalp with his roughened fingers.
You’ve been on the run with Issei ever since you were seven and crying over tooth fairies. You sprinted from the old couple whose doorbell you rang as kids, from boring, no-music college events, and today, from your nosy relatives who pester you to settle down and tie the knot before you turn twenty-three next year.
It’s grueling to tell them that you don’t believe in marriage, because when you were ten, your mother’s clothes trailed to your childhood bedroom, hastily covering a pair of Dr. Martens. But your father never stepped foot in a Dr. Martens store.
Over the years you’ve gotten over it; if you were being honest—to yourself, to Issei—there’s another reason marriage leaves a bad taste in your mouth.
You cross your ankles and rub your toes. You roll on your side where Issei’s face is and listen to the hollow sound of his abdomen, drowning the rustling of leaves and wildflowers around you.
His eyes are closed, and you crawl your hand just below his chest, grounding yourself with each rise and fall of his belly. He picks up your hand, moving it to the center of his heart, and doesn’t let go.
“They should pay for child support if they want me to get married,” you say. “Why the rush? It’s not like I’m gonna die tomorrow.”
Issei laughs. “You don’t know that. Maybe tomorrow your bones are barely strong enough for your own body.” He peers his eyes over you. “Make sure you reserve a casket from my shop, okay?”
You slap him, too gently.
“I’m serious! I’d offer you our cherry wood casket, you know, but my fiance called dibs already.”
Issei closes his eyes again. His frown twists a dull knife in your gut.
And this is really why you don’t believe in marriage: you’ve been with Issei long enough to know that he will choose you first, over anyone, over a girl he’s always loved enough to marry.