100 Days of Writing - 06
"There," Margaret thought to herself as she glued the last piece into her vision board, a signed cheque to herself in the amount of $15,000.
She set the foamcore collage aside while she made herself the usual spaghetti and daydreamed of paying off her modest debt and travelling to Europe for a few weeks in the summer. She assumed the money would come to her in the form of a winning lottery ticket, an unexpected inheritance of some sort or heck, even a small business loan or a grant that would finally allow her fern-growing business to take off.
She certainly didn't suspect that, after 3 years of yearning for a fat sum of money to appear out of thin air that she would suddenly be entertaining the idea of immigration fraud, but there she was, one April night in a dive bar at Landsdowne and Bloor, sitting across from Carlos, a hard-working Brazilian man proposing marriage.
"We'd only have to see each other at the holidays, take a few pictures like a happy couple and no one will know," Carlos said over a glass of Belgian Moon.
She'd just met the guy after a brief conversation on Bumble, but was open to hearing him out. After all, Margaret hadn't exactly been successful in the relationship department and hadn't called anyone her boyfriend since Tommy V. stole a granola bar right out of her hands in grade 5. "He loves me," she assured her friends.
Margaret was, well... frumpy, but kinda hot underneath all those layers. She kept a pair of 20-eye Doc Martens in the closet, a last remnant of her youth, and a nod to the punkish roots she claimed honour to. They hadn't seen the light of day since 2005, but every now and then she'd dust them off with the broom as she returned it to its place. Just knowing they were there was comfort enough that she'd paid her dues and was making good choices in life.
Carlos was a well-groomed man in his thirties with an industrial piercing in his left ear, and a collection of heavy metal t-shirts that got regular play in his wardrobe. He'd moved here for a chance at a better life almost a decade ago and after some trouble with his Visa (and his personal life), he was finally entertaining the possibility of a marriage of convenience, just so he could stay. His family had dispersed into the United States, but he had little desire to contend with the tougher laws and higher competition rates there, so he settled on good ole Canada.
"Tell me more," she said in the bar as she eyed the bottom of her pint of Alexander Keiths. Visions of heritage sites and galleries and Amsterdam-bound trains began to fill her head.
"My mom did it." Carlos said, confidently. "And the money she paid her husband- he used it to buy a house with her."
"Oh so it worked out? I mean, they fell in love?"
"Eventually, yeah."
Margaret glanced at the facial hair covering a nice set of lips on Carlos's face and decided to redirect the conversation for the time-being. Not giving up on it entirely, but taking a sobering breath to acknowledge how crazy this all was, mostly because she was caught off-guard by how "into it" she was.
After another pint and stories Carlos told her of Wasaga beach and Formula 1, Margaret walked home with a different attitude towards love and relationships than she'd ever encountered before. "He's decent, good enough.. it's plausible that we would date, maybe it would work out like in those arranged marriages you hear about. I'm marriage material, fuck yeah!"
She lit a cigarette and contemplated money. She didn't hear from Carlos until a week later, while she was elbow-deep in organic matter, about to transfer Fern #126.
[WHAT HAPPENS? I don't know yet... :) ]
Lana Del Rey,
Katie
She set the foamcore collage aside while she made herself the usual spaghetti and daydreamed of paying off her modest debt and travelling to Europe for a few weeks in the summer. She assumed the money would come to her in the form of a winning lottery ticket, an unexpected inheritance of some sort or heck, even a small business loan or a grant that would finally allow her fern-growing business to take off.
She certainly didn't suspect that, after 3 years of yearning for a fat sum of money to appear out of thin air that she would suddenly be entertaining the idea of immigration fraud, but there she was, one April night in a dive bar at Landsdowne and Bloor, sitting across from Carlos, a hard-working Brazilian man proposing marriage.
"We'd only have to see each other at the holidays, take a few pictures like a happy couple and no one will know," Carlos said over a glass of Belgian Moon.
She'd just met the guy after a brief conversation on Bumble, but was open to hearing him out. After all, Margaret hadn't exactly been successful in the relationship department and hadn't called anyone her boyfriend since Tommy V. stole a granola bar right out of her hands in grade 5. "He loves me," she assured her friends.
Margaret was, well... frumpy, but kinda hot underneath all those layers. She kept a pair of 20-eye Doc Martens in the closet, a last remnant of her youth, and a nod to the punkish roots she claimed honour to. They hadn't seen the light of day since 2005, but every now and then she'd dust them off with the broom as she returned it to its place. Just knowing they were there was comfort enough that she'd paid her dues and was making good choices in life.
Carlos was a well-groomed man in his thirties with an industrial piercing in his left ear, and a collection of heavy metal t-shirts that got regular play in his wardrobe. He'd moved here for a chance at a better life almost a decade ago and after some trouble with his Visa (and his personal life), he was finally entertaining the possibility of a marriage of convenience, just so he could stay. His family had dispersed into the United States, but he had little desire to contend with the tougher laws and higher competition rates there, so he settled on good ole Canada.
"Tell me more," she said in the bar as she eyed the bottom of her pint of Alexander Keiths. Visions of heritage sites and galleries and Amsterdam-bound trains began to fill her head.
"My mom did it." Carlos said, confidently. "And the money she paid her husband- he used it to buy a house with her."
"Oh so it worked out? I mean, they fell in love?"
"Eventually, yeah."
Margaret glanced at the facial hair covering a nice set of lips on Carlos's face and decided to redirect the conversation for the time-being. Not giving up on it entirely, but taking a sobering breath to acknowledge how crazy this all was, mostly because she was caught off-guard by how "into it" she was.
After another pint and stories Carlos told her of Wasaga beach and Formula 1, Margaret walked home with a different attitude towards love and relationships than she'd ever encountered before. "He's decent, good enough.. it's plausible that we would date, maybe it would work out like in those arranged marriages you hear about. I'm marriage material, fuck yeah!"
She lit a cigarette and contemplated money. She didn't hear from Carlos until a week later, while she was elbow-deep in organic matter, about to transfer Fern #126.
[WHAT HAPPENS? I don't know yet... :) ]
Lana Del Rey,
Katie
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