Ive married my neighbour, Arthur, who is eightytwo, just so they dont send him off to a care home.
Are you out of your mind? my sister Laura nearly spills her tea when I tell her.
First, hes eightytwo, not eightytwo years old, I reply as calmly as I can. And second let me finish.
It all starts when I hear his children talking under his sash windows. They drop by twice a year: to check that their father is still breathing, then disappear again. This time they cling to him with brochures for retirement villages.
Dad, youre eightytwo. You cant live alone.
Im eightytwo, not eightytwo illnesses, he snaps in his hoarse, warm voice. I cook for myself, I go to the market, I even bingewatch dramas without a nap. Im fine.
That evening he knocks on my flat door, a bottle of red wine in hand and the look of someone about to have a desperate but important conversation.
I need help a bit odd.
Two glasses later, that odd help turns into a proposal.
Its only on paper, he explains. If Im married, my kids will find it harder to move me somewhere out of sight.
I stare into his blue eyes, still lit with mischief and grit, and think of my quiet evenings: an empty flat, the television, and absolute silence. Hes the only one who asks me how my day went every morning.
Whats in it for me? I ask.
Half the bills, a Sunday casserole and someone who cares that I get home.
Three weeks later we stand in the registry office. Im in a dress I bought on a whim in the morning. Hes in an old suit smelling of mothballs and memories. Our witnesses are the kiosk lady and her husband, who can barely keep from laughing.
May you kiss the bride, the registrar says. He plantsmacks me on the cheek so loudly I think hes opening a letter.
From then on everything falls surprisingly easily: he gets up at six, does his legendary five pushups; I sip yesterdays coffee and stay up late after work.
Thats not coffee, its torture, he grumbles.
Your exercises are a parody of sport, I retort.
On Sundays the house fills with the scent of casserole and laughter. He talks about his late wife, the love of his life, and about the children who see him now as a problem rather than a father.
One day those same children burst in, accusing:
Shes using him!
I can hear you perfectly! he shouts from the kitchen. And by the way, your coffee tastes awful!
Why do you need this marriage? his daughter Emma asks, her stare cold as winter. I look at where he hums while pouring me a fresh cup.
Why? Because Im not alone. I have someone to sit down with on Sunday evenings. Someone to say Im home. Someone who smiles at my jokes. Is that a crime?
The door slams shut, punctuating their argument. He brings two mugs.
People think Ive gone mad.
Theyre right, I smile. Youre mad too.
That makes us perfect together.
Your coffee is still poison.
Your workouts are cartoonish.
Well, we have a family.
We clink mugs as the sun sets, a genuineyetunreal love unfolding.
Six months later nothing changes: he still rises too early, I still ruin the coffee, and Sundays still smell of casserole and happiness.
Do you ever regret it?
Not for a single second, I answer every time.
Let anyone call our marriage a sham. To me its the most authentic thing thats ever happened in my life.
