The Butter Hits Different

Proposals: Consecutive Substack Story 1037

Photo by Laura Nyhuis on Unsplash

He was a perfect scoop of ice cream dropped on a hot porch step, with eyes like sun blisters and splayed feet that looked like they could only run if water was close by, for when he inevitably lurched face forward.

When he spoke he was like an old 16mm film with a projector that was overheating and slightly off center, words like helpings of goulash coming from a ladle held by a lunch lady who had lost her train of thought.

I couldn’t imagine him having anything else to do, really, but his left leg twitched as though he wished to run.

He might have resembled a meaty discus thrower lined up in a sprinter’s blocks if he hadn’t been so melty.

This was a first meeting, both an introduction and a possible new direction.

I reflexively asked him to repeat himself, and immediately felt like I was a cruel headmaster in a school near the Kremlin.

His nostrils flared, though his eyes showed fright, not anger. He looked as though he might be incapable of anger, which under the circumstances, was a very positive thing.

He repeated himself in the same oozing manner, stuttering this time, the assembly line of his mind glitching under a production increase.

“I w-w-w-ant your permish-mish mish-ission to ask your d-daughter to marry me.”

My interest, already piqued and peaking enough to blow the average car speaker, accelerated to a dimension I had not yet known.

“Which one, my friend?”

I had five daughters, one too young for the amorphous suitor who stood before me, one too old and too happily wed.

Three in his approximate age range, none of whom I could imagine desiring this person to slip jewelry on the proximal phalange of the fourth digit of their left hand.

The lad squeezed his face as though the correct name was juice that would spray from his teeth.

I raised my hand like a crossing guard, easing his burden and correcting my own honest mistake.

“It doesn’t matter. They are adults, and they are intelligent. None of them require my blessing or guidance. I might ask, though, as I converse with them often, approximately how many hours have you spent in the presence of my child in question?”

The lumpy boy-child swallowed as though a blasphemous communion had been placed in his mouth by a defrocked priest.

“Evange-vange-line, sir,” he stuttered, “and…a…the movie…uh…was about an hour and twenty eight minutes. The…the…the r-r-ride back to her…her house probably tw-twenty.”

I had advice for the young man, both succinct and copious. 

I gave him none.

Wishing him luck verbally, but not emotionally, I closed the door and sat back down, wondering what movie they had gone to see.

***