Garry Prescott

‚Married, Apparently‘ They were coworkers. Not friends, not enemies—just two people from the same department who had made the catastrophic mistake of agreeing to a “temporary” carpool six months ago. By the time she slammed the passenger door, he already had her coffee in the cup holder. Wrong milk. On purpose. “You know I hate oat,” she said, buckling in. “You drink it every Tuesday,” he replied, pulling into traffic. “That’s not love, that’s routine.” “Wow,” he said. “Six months of carpooling and you’re already rewriting history.” They fought about the playlist next—her calling his music aggressive, him calling hers depressing—until they stopped at a gas station, still mid-argument, still standing too close. She gestured wildly with her receipt. He rolled his eyes, corrected her about the route, corrected her about the weather, corrected her about everything except the fact that he’d waited ten minutes that morning because she’d overslept. The cashier watched them with a soft smile and asked, genuinely curious, “So… how long have you two been married?” Silence hit like a red light. “We’re not—” she started. “Absolutely not,” he said at the same time. The cashier laughed. “Could’ve fooled me.” Back in the car, they drove in quiet for exactly three blocks. Then she snorted. He laughed. “Tomorrow,” he said, turning up her music, “I’m choosing the route.” She took a sip of the coffee, grimaced, then drank it anyway. “Fine,” she said. “But we’re not holding hands in public.” He smiled at the road. “Baby steps, wife.” (32, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)