He looked at the clock ticking away. It was already 9PM. Dinner crumbled in his hands, a mash of potato palya and white rice forming a smooth ball in his smooth-as-silk hands. He was supposed to be there, not here. The wedding was to have taken place at 10:33PM. It was an odd hour. But it was decided by them. That was the time they had first met. “Beautiful numbers,” he had murmured. He didn’t know why he had looked at his watch and then his neck when they met. But he had. And now the wedding.

Best friends marry. Lovers don’t. He glanced down at the disgusting mess that potatoes and rice make when mixed without care. He should be there, not here. Make a heroic entry. Grab the bridegroom and run away. “You must be there,” the bridegroom had pleaded. “I can’t get married unless you are there.” He scoffed at the idea. Then had agreed. Potatoes and rice don’t match. And weddings and he don’t.

He looked at the clock again. 9:06PM. He shoved the plate aside, and it made a soft sigh as it landed on the bed. He would go. He would. There would be a happy ending. They would run away somewhere. California? Where was it? He forgot where – but there were places in this world that didn’t think too much of these things. He stood up. And then slowly, picked up the gilt-edged wedding card, wrote his own name over the bride, carefully, not smudging the gold lettering. Carefully, he kept it under his pillow. He knew now. Marriages take place only so that affairs can.