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“The past failures of humanity amuse me,” says Emilia one day while sitting in the back of her freshman history class at Venice College and tipping her chair back as far as humanly possible. The instructor’s late today just like he is every other day.
“I agree,” says the guy sitting next to her, and Emilia glances over at him—her throwaway comment had been supposed to be just that, a throwaway comment. It hadn’t been meant to be heard, but that doesn’t really matter now.
“I’m glad,” Emilia replies, keeping one eye out for the teacher as she ceases leaning back in the chair, letting it spring back forward to its natural position. “It’s nice to meet a fellow cynic.” She turns in her chair and faces the guy only to find out that he’s remarkably average-looking, with fairly shabby-looking clothes—odds are she’s probably passed him in some building or other before without ever recognizing him. It sounds bad to describe someone as generic, yeah, but that’s just how this dude is.
“Iago,” says the guy, by way of introduction.
"Like the bird? You know, the one from Aladdin?"
“Yes, like the bird," says Iago. "Never heard that one before." Emilia shrugs apologetically as he continues, "You’re Emilia, aren’t you?”
“I—yeah,” replies Emilia, caught off guard by the fact that this guy knows her name. “Yeah, that’s me.”
Iago nods in assent; Emilia opens her mouth to ask him something along the lines of how the hell did you know who I was, but the professor walks in, interrupting her train of thought. By the time class is over, she’s decided that it doesn’t really matter anyway.
She doesn’t see him again until it’s time for the same class a couple of days later; when she walks into the room, there he is. Iago’s in the same spot he’d been before, and Emilia has to wonder if he’s always been there without her ever noticing him.
“Hey there, cynic,” says Emilia, sinking into the chair next to him. Iago doesn’t react, only raises an eyebrow in a supremely disaffected manner. “What’s up?”
“With me?” replies Iago. “Not much.”
“...That’s good,” says Emilia; small talk has never really been her forte. “So...you a history major too?”
Iago shakes his head. “Political science. Though I might briefly join the military before actually beginning my career—they’re always looking for fresh recruits, and it looks good to be well-rounded.”
“Huh,” says Emilia, taking her smartphone out of her purse. It’s the newest and most expensive model; judging from Iago’s raised eyebrows, he notices but doesn’t say anything about it. “Well, your life’s better planned out than mine. That’s something.”
“Guess so,” replies Iago, turning fully to face her. “Not according to all my relatives, though—they maintain this ridiculous idea that one’s life needs marriage to be ‘fully complete’.”
“Yours too?” Emilia, who’s been rummaging through her designer purse in a fruitless search for a writing utensil that actually works, looks up; the irritated expression on his face perfectly matches her feelings about marriage. “Christ, relatives are the worst, aren’t they?”
Iago smiles; it’s a strangely crooked smile, half the mouth lifted higher than the other, and Emilia decides then and there that Iago’s smile is his best feature.
“Definitely,” says Iago, “and so is marriage, come to think of it.”
“Agreed one hundred percent,” replies Emilia. “This is gonna sound incredibly irresponsible, but do you have a pen or a pencil or something? All of mine are either broken or lost.”
“Ah,” says Iago, glancing down briefly at the vortex of terror that’s otherwise known as the inside of Emilia’s purse. “Yes. Hold on.” He picks up an immaculately organized pencil case and from it withdraws a pristine-looking pencil with no scuff marks on it whatsoever; Emilia’s immediately impressed.
“These new?”
“The pencils? No,” says Iago, frowning slightly, “I think I’ve had them for a while now. Why?”
“No reason,” replies Emilia as the professor enters the room. It’s only after the class ends and Emilia sheepishly returns the pencil-plus-newly-added-bite-marks to Iago that his eyes widen in understanding.
“Ah,” says Iago, staring at the proffered pencil without taking it. “Well, it definitely doesn’t look new anymore.”
“Sorry,” replies Emilia, wiping it off with the sleeve of her sweater in an attempt to get rid of any residual mouth juices. “Nervous habit.”
“I see.” Iago still doesn’t take the pencil even after Emilia’s finished rubbing it off as thoroughly as she can. “You know, you can keep it, actually.”
“God, I’m sorry—” begins Emilia, face getting hot, but Iago waves off her apology.
“Consider it a donation. To the...oh, let's say to the Anti-Marriage League.” Iago smiles that endearingly crooked smile once again.
“You got it,” replies Emilia, glad he doesn't seem to be angry. “This pencil is representative of truth, trust, and—uh—”
“Our respective commitments to the life of a bachelor. Spinsterhood, if you will.” Still smiling, Iago rises, picking up his phone; his is a flip phone, a sharp contrast to Emilia's brand-new smartphone.
“See ya around, fellow marriage-free comrade,” Emilia says. Iago nods, grabs his books with one arm, and mock-salutes before exiting.
The next time their history class meets, Iago’s sitting in the same place, and Emilia joins him. Before long, she’s started thinking of him less as that generic-looking kid with shabby clothes and more as one of her friends. They start meeting up with each other outside of class, and their conversations become less and less awkward; surprisingly, however, the nonexistent Anti-Marriage League remains a constant topic of conversation.
Over time, the Anti-Marriage League grows from just an idea into a real thing; Emilia and Iago decide to ironically start a club due to both curiosity and a lack of anything better to do, roping as many fellow students as possible into the charade.
“If you insist, I’ll come,” says Bianca, an acquaintance whom Emilia had invited on a whim, “but I don’t see what all the fuss is about. If you don’t wanna get married, just don’t.”
“It’s a joke, Bianca,” replies Emilia. “It’s all ironic.”
“Sounds dumb to me,” Bianca says, arms folded, but she still shows up at the first Anti-Marriage League meeting and all the ones afterward.
The meetings themselves are very uneventful; they mostly just consist of a bunch of college kids screwing around. Surprisingly, the club continues throughout all four years of Emilia and Iago’s higher education, and it gains quite a bit of popularity. Occasionally, someone’ll come along who’s seriously devoted to staying single forever, but eventually they give up the spark of passion, joining in with everyone else’s halfhearted cheers of “Truth! Trust! Spinsterhood!” before helping themselves to the free snacks that are available at every meeting.
“You know, Iago, I think we’ve done good old Venice College a real service here,” says Emilia, now a senior, proudly looking upon two of the league members as they nearly come to blows over the last remaining slice of pizza. “There are so many fine, upstanding individuals in this club.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Emilia,” Iago says, watching the victorious league member teasingly wave the pizza slice in the unlucky one’s face. “I think we can chalk the Anti-Marriage League up as a roaring success.”
Emilia nods as the two previously-fighting students run off to another room, presumably in search of more snacks. “Absolutely.”
“Emilia?”
“Mm?”
“You know what would be hilarious?” says Iago, a mischievous glint in his eyes and the familiar crooked grin on his face.
Emilia sighs. “What?”
“Well, you know how we’ve said anyone who gets married gets kicked out of the club?”
“Yeah?”
“Okay—this is going to sound ridiculous, but bear with me—what if we got married?”
“Us?” says Emilia. “Like, you and me?”
“Exactly.”
Emilia laughs. “Oh my God, can you even imagine it? Everyone would be so horrified.”
“Right?” smirks Iago. “I mean, what an idea—”
“Let’s do it,” says Emilia. “I’m not kidding. We totally should.”
“Glad you agree,” replies Iago. “When do you want the wedding to be?”
“The sooner the better. Next week. Let’s do it.”
“Alright,” says Iago. The crooked smile appears on his face once again, and Emilia thinks that if she has to get married, then she could definitely do worse. Besides, it’s not like they’re going to stay married or anything. It's just a joke. That's all.
The wedding is truly grand in the way that only a purely ironic wedding between two college students who hate marriage can be. The newlyweds have their first kiss under a clumsily-made paper banner that has MARRIAGE IS AN INSTITUTION DESIGNED TO RUIN HUMAN LIVES sketched on it in red crayon. Everyone in the Anti-Marriage League—nearly everyone who’d attended the wedding, in other words—boos when Emilia and Iago kiss. The pastor, who hadn’t been in on the joke, leaves the service looking decidedly lost.
“How’s it feel to be a traitor to the cause?” says Bianca, elbowing Emilia good-naturedly.
“Wonderful,” replies Emilia, pulling Iago into another kiss for good measure. Kissing’s a weird feeling—not good, not bad, just weird. Judging from the strange look on Iago’s face, he seems to be of a similar opinion.
“So are you guys—well, are you actually married now?” pipes up Desdemona, Emilia’s longtime friend and one of the few wedding attendees who hadn’t been a part of the Anti-Marriage League.
“If you mean ‘did we just get legally married in the view of the government’,” says Emilia, “then yes, we did.”
“Are you gonna stay that way?”
Unsure how to respond, Emilia glances over at Iago; he only shrugs, so she mirrors the gesture.
Desdemona only shakes her head. “I’d never have expected you to marry before me.”
“Me neither, in all honesty,” says Emilia. “Me neither.”
They have sex; both of them had been hesitant about the idea, but they’d ultimately decided that if they’re going to go through with the marriage, they have to go through with all of it. So they do. To Emilia, it’s like kissing, except more extreme—ultimately not good, not bad, just weird.
“Well,” she says once it’s over and Iago’s lying next to her in the bed, “how does it feel now that we’ve fully consummated our marriage?”
“Terrible,” he says flatly; the room’s dark, so it’s impossible for Emilia to see his face and know if he’s joking or not. “Animalistic. I’ll stick to romance novels, thanks.”
“Mm,” replies Emilia, feeling strangely offended even though she hadn’t really enjoyed it either. “Well, we can be celibate then.”
He doesn’t respond, and Emilia gets even more offended until she realizes that he’s not ignoring her—he’s just fallen asleep.
She’s married now. It’s strange—she’d spent all that time railing about how awful marriage was, she’d spent all that time at Anti-Marriage League Meetings (even if it had been a joke, the original sentiment behind it had been real), and she’d ended up getting married anyway. Ironically, yes, but once something ironic gets taken far enough it ceases being a joke and becomes real; here she is, married to Iago.
It could be a lot worse, really. Besides, it’s not like it’s going to last.
That would be ridiculous.
“Do you want a divorce?” she asks Iago a couple weeks later as she's idly watching him tidy up all the things she’s haphazardly left around her apartment.
He turns to her, raising his eyebrows. “Do you?”
She shrugs. “I don’t really care either way—I just thought that, y’know, since we did kinda get married as a joke and all—”
“Yeah,” he says. “There is that, I guess, but—”
“Why?” says Emilia. “Did you want to stay married?”
“I mean,” shrugs Iago, “it’s not like I hate it or anything. It’s kinda peaceful.”
“True. Plus the longer we stay married, the longer we can keep the joke going,” says Emilia, and Iago nods.
“Alright,” Emilia says. “We won’t plan a divorce yet.”
Iago nods again before picking up one of Emilia’s red silk shirts and examining it with interest.
“Must have cost a fortune,” he says.
“The shirt? Nah, not that much,” replies Emilia, turning her attention to the half-finished book on her reading tablet.
“It’s more than I’d have ever spent on a shirt, at any rate,” Iago says, folding the shirt and setting it by the bed. Emilia, trying to read her book, doesn’t respond.
Three months later, they officially leave higher education and become adults, at least from the point of view of those in charge.
“Iago?” Emilia says blearily after she wakes up one morning.
“Yes?”
“Well,” says Emilia, “the joke’s gone on for awhile now.”
“Joke?”
“Our marriage, Iago.”
“Right,” Iago says. “Because our relationship’s a joke.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” asks Emilia, irritated at his self-righteous tone. “We got married under a banner talking about the evils of marriage—there’s no way it could be anything but a joke.”
“Fine, fine,” says Iago, climbing stiffly out of bed—while the two of them haven’t had sex since the initial consummation, they still sleep in the same bed because Emilia’s been too lazy to buy another one. “It’s just going to be such a hassle. I mean, with all those court proceedings to divide up the money and everything—”
“Dividing up the money?” repeats Emilia, watching Iago stretch in the sunlight like some sort of cat. “I thought we just got back whatever it is we contributed.”
“We would have,” says Iago, “but I suppose we must have neglected to sign the prenuptial agreement. But fair’s fair—you can get half the funds, and I’ll get half.”
“Hold on,” says Emilia. “Hold on a second. Look, not to be financially insensitive or anything, but I contributed a lot more to this marriage, money-wise, than you did.”
Iago shrugs mischievously; normally it’s a move that’s guaranteed to make her laugh, but suddenly it isn’t funny anymore. “You should’ve thought of that before we got married, I guess.”
“I—” begins Emilia, but stops, lost for words; eventually, the only thing she can get out is: “What the hell, Iago.”
"What?"
"You tricked me, you bastard."
“Me?” says Iago, eyes wide. “No! I swear I had no idea.”
It’s convincing; Emilia’s not sure if she believes him or not.
“So basically,” Emilia says, trying to sort it all out in her mind, “if I end up agreeing to this, you and I would walk away with more or less equal amounts of money. Which means that you’d be a lot richer, and I’d be a lot poorer. On the other hand, if I don’t agree to that, then we’ll both probably go through the hellscape that's the divorcee court system.”
“I think that’s how it would work,” says Iago, eyes still unnaturally wide. “But I promise you, Emilia, I had no idea—”
“Shut up,” snaps Emilia, irritated. "Damn it, Iago, why won't you just admit that you're in it for the cash?"
“You wouldn’t really be that poor,” Iago says, ignoring the question. “For one, you’d still be a lot richer than I was before our marriage.”
“Don’t try and get me to pity you because it won’t work.” Emilia rises from the bed, attempting to rake her hand through her tangled mess of hair. “So you’re saying you wanna divorce and take my money.”
“You were the one who wanted a divorce—“
“And you don’t?” says Emilia, totally bewildered. “Christ, just tell me what you want!”
“I want—” begins Iago before stopping, composing himself, “I just don’t want you to be upset with me. I hope, when we part, that we part on good terms—”
“If we part.”
“What?” Now it’s Iago’s turn to look confused.
“You were all reluctant to get a divorce before now.”
“That’s true,” says Iago. “Because I knew this would happen—”
“So why divorce at all?” says Emilia, and the look of surprise on his face gives her a strange thrall of bitter joy. “After all, we seem to be pretty happy together. Why not keep the joke going?”
“Well,” says Iago, gaze flickering around the room before finally landing on Emilia, “well. That’s...that's true. That’s very true.”
“Glad it’s settled then,” replies Emilia, pushing the flickers of hesitation and disillusionment back down inside her, somewhere where they’ll never be revealed. This isn’t exactly what she wanted, no, but it doesn’t seem to be exactly what he’d planned for either—in other words, it’s a compromise. And isn’t marriage supposed to be one big compromise anyway?
A couple of years later, they’re still together; most of their friends are gone, having moved away from their college town as soon as they got the chance. The few that remain occasionally keep in touch. By now, everyone’s assumed that their marriage was never actually intended to be a joke after all, and Emilia doesn’t have the heart to correct them.
It’s not bad. Really it’s not. Emilia hardly sees Iago, as a matter of fact; he’s preparing to join the military, and she’s preparing to get an advanced history degree. It’s an easy life, a relaxing life, if strangely disappointing. Sometimes Emilia wonders if—no, no, it doesn’t matter anymore. She’s made her choice; she hadn’t realized the consequences of her overhasty marriage would last this long. But that’s how it goes. You make your bed, and then you lie in it. Sometimes literally.
This is life now. She’ll just have to make do with what it’s dealt her.
And yet. And yet there's the feeling, deep inside, that she's ruined her life before it even had the chance to begin. It's a sharp, uncomfortable feeling—bitterness, maybe. Or regret.
So some years later, when her friend Desdemona gets married, Emilia's overjoyed for her, but the feeling's still there, green-eyed and pulsing in all the worst ways.
"I need Desdemona's handkerchief," says Iago one day, and Emilia knows Iago's true nature fully now, knows well enough that he means to do nothing good with it.
"Why?"
"Reasons," says Iago, waving his hand in the air in his typical aloof manner.
"It's her favorite handkerchief."
"I need it," says Iago again, voice quiet and non-threatening.
Desdemona is Emilia's best friend. Desdemona is kind and sweet and non-threatening. Desdemona has the life and the happiness Emilia'll never have—not anymore, not when she's married to Iago. And somewhere deep inside, Emilia's still fond of Iago, too; she still wants him to succeed in some way.
"Consider it done," says Emilia softly. Iago smiles that crooked smile, and the green-eyed feeling rises up within Emilia, more powerful than ever before.
It doesn't matter, not really. She can always just make a copy of the handkerchief or something and give that to Iago. Besides, even if she doesn't get the chance to copy it, it's not as if the loss of a stupid handkerchief is going to negatively affect Desdemona that much.
That would be ridiculous.