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At some point, everyone realized the mass known as Matt was a tumor of the inoperable variety. Around the age of eighteen, the awkward snooping phone calls from Jay’s mom began. Eventually they led to private dinners in dim restaurants with tinkling live piano music, where she leveled a gaze that said: “Do you know what you’re signing up for?”
“Yes,” Matt’s eyes replied.
“Do you know what his father was like?” asked the straw stabbing at her ice cubes.
“Yes,” answered Matt’s hands folded on the white tablecloth.
Little did she know Matt had written pieces of their vows before they even moved in together: for now, for ever, for better, for worse.