I hate the Idea Of Marriage

"I hate the idea of Marriage. I don't think I want to do it," she toyed with the cigarette in between long perfectly manicured red nails as she spoke. Then as if prompted by the guilt that rested its head on her shoulders each time she smoked, she slammed the butt in the ashtray, killing the flame. She did it in a manner as though she was killing the flame of the love that had once burned in her heart.

"I mean I can't do it, you know? What's in it but more troubles for one's soul?"
"Did he hit you again?" It was the only thing I could find to ask. Maybe in some way, another fight between them would justify her opinions of Marriage.

"Ha! I wish I could call it that. It was two hot slaps on my face. I actually saw his palm print engraved on my foundation."
Bola.
She still had a way to etch some humor to her plight. I admired that about her. The waiter came back to ask if we wanted more drinks, to which she promptly waved him off as she would a house fly.
"Folake says I should file for divorce. Which kine nonsense life?"
"Oh! You still speak with Folake?" I said, a silly rhetoric that I couldn't chew back in my mouth. It was a statement of fact rather than a question. It answered itself.
"Babe if you were in my shoes what would you do?"
I thought for a moment, taking my eyes from the ashtray to her face, briefly scanning her overdrawn eyebrows and stopping myself from judging her poor skills with Makeup.
"I don't know hunnie. I just really believe marriage is between the couple and God. Everything else is props for the film of life."
"I don't get."
"Here's what I know. I have never seen my Dad yell at my Mom, they are always talking and chit chatting about one thing or the other and they pray together everyday. They are climbing on to 35 years now and if you ask me, they probably have all of their baggage well hidden under all of the rugs in our house."
She looked away, her expression distant. There was a mother hen pecking at the sand with her chicks following behind, doing the same. She seemed to be looking at them but I could tell she was looking beyond them.
"I don't know if I want to get married either," I said, reaching for her hand, "But if I do, I know I must be grounded deep enough in God, deep enough for my husband and children."
"Children! Ha, thank God I didn't get pregnant for this bastard," she gawked. I felt a piercing in the flesh of my chest, it was as though something was wriggling itself tightly into me, like I was receiving in full portion whatever pain Bola was going through. I held on to her hand and squeezed it.
She looked at me, a thousand questions in her eyes but none finding a way to her mouth.
"I really wish I didn't get married babes," she whispered, squeezing back on my hand, a plea in her tone.
When the tear fell, it came down very slowly at first and then suddenly began to rush for her mouth and shirt, bringing with it the clumpy blackness of her mascara.

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