“When will you pop the question?” he asks me. We’re sitting around a table in the bar nearest the office, celebrating what must be the fifth engagement of the year. Nearly every other man at the table is married, engaged, or divorced – I’ve been with Elisa now for seven years and none of my colleagues can understand why I haven’t slipped a ring on her finger.
“Not really planning on it,” I mumble. I’m here because it’s my supervisor celebrating his engagement, and office politics prevent me from doing the decent thing – going home and watching “Chuck” on Bluray with the woman I love.
“Oh, you’ll change your mind,” someone else says in a superior tone. I raise an eyebrow.
“I don’t think so,” I disagree, looking into my glass of orange juice.
“Sure you will.”
No, I won’t. People hear my views on marriage and assume I’m some kind of commitmentphobe, when the reality is that I want to spend the rest of my life with Elisa, and I don’t feel I need a piece of paper and a big party to validate that in any way.