This Beetle Is Getting Married

*The following short story is a work of fiction. The characters, organisations, brands, and events portrayed are fictional. Any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental. This material does not reflect the author's opinions. It may depict highly unsuitable topics and language for sensitive demographics and should not be read by minors.

My fiancée, Andrea—soon Andrea de Santos—and I visited a bunch of wedding salon open houses. The first place was “The Penetrorium” and I think that all these places have pretentious names in Latin to impress idiots.

“The Praetorium… What a classy name!” Andrea interrupted my thought.

I face-palmed, and when she inquired me I told her that I had forgotten my ideas notebook back home. We lurked around the various purveyors located by the window-pane walls. Photographers, Wedding Planners, Florists, photo booths, and Violinists, but we requested the services of a seemingly depressed old lady beside a Desert Table example.

“These brownies are somewhat dry, right?” Andrea confided to me.

“I am afraid these were cardboard cube-craft examples…” The woman said, listless.

“I have eaten worse…” I stupidly said, before realising that I was referring to the ones Andrea had cooked for me.

“Where, honey?” She inquired me mischievously.

“Um… At my mother’s.” I gulped.

My fiancée and I munched on the fake desserts since we decided not to have lunch, thus when the food-tasting options arrived at our table, we filled our bellies with a little lasagna, a bit of chicken, and a mini Krabby Patty and called it a night.

Another wedding salon that I recall was the “Magnum Verandah”. We were received by a valet parking service, I always feel unsure about leaving the car with strangers but a wave of relief washed over me when the nerdy woman with bad breath slapped us with generous monthly promotions assured.

“Valet Parking… With Security.” She said.

I remembered that “The Penetrorium” also had valet parking, but they did not tell us anything about security, so I guess you would need a replacement of windows and tyres after the party finishes.

“Look, Harry!” Andrea said to me. “DJ included for five hours!” She exclaimed, pointing her slender finger at the paper sheet—of the included services.

But I grasped that below that line also was ‘Live DJ’. I was rejoicing in ecstasy since we would not have to bear a DJ through a Zoom meeting on the day of our wedding.

Another thing the imbeciles listed was ‘Mounting and Dismounting of tables’ as if I were to do so in my tuxedo.

“Restrooms with Air Conditioning.” The nerdy woman beckoned to us.

I obviously leaned to murmur a sarcastic remark in my fiancée’s ear. “I wonder who is the suspicious jackass that needed to check…” But before I even opened my jaw, Andrea was already inside the restroom. And I must mention she was holding a warm cup of chocolate. Later that night, she admitted to me that inside there she nodded to a cleaning lady before coming out.

What else could we possibly want? We had everything in the Magnum Verandah! Cross-back chairs, architectural illumination, and crockery are included.

“What about the church?” Andrea reminded me.

“You are most right, baby. We ought to call our local church.”

I googled the phone number and made the call since she had ducked out shyly.

“Information for marital ceremonies, please.”

“Good afternoon, there is no price for marital ceremonies. However, there is a donation of three thousand dollars. Pastor not included.”

I hurled the mobile as if it was haunted.

“We can do our religious ceremony in the Magnum Verandah, right?”

“Yes, I think the short woman with cadaver breath told us so…” I recalled.

We gave our first instalment—all cash since that would get us free corkage and two hours of after-party, please do not think it has something to do with tax evasion. The nerdy woman sent us the Google Doc agreement via message. Andrea—soon de Santos—and I sat on the bed, we put on our reading glasses and watched the entire season of Beast Games on Prime Video until the moon fell upon us. Two o’clock in the morning, the digital clock marked. We knew it was time to read the agreement, so we naturally had intercourse with a jar of Nutella and a shower afterwards. Four and a half in the morning, the clock displayed. We decided to read the agreement first thing in the morning.

‘In case of a natural disaster, an epidemic, a pandemic, a coup d’etat, a terrorist strike, an asteroid impact, or a zombie apocalypse, the Magnum Verandah is not responsible for the money hereby accorded and cannot be held accountable in case of not returning it back to the contractor.’

“I am not so sure about that clause…”

“You are such a paranoid, Harry. These are just formalities!”

When Valentine’s Day came, I took Andrea—soon de Santos—to a spa for a massage for pre-wedding stress. We waited at the reception.

“Could you not wait until the masseuse tells you to undress?” She said, irritated because I was just wearing a white towel.

“You are just jealous because you have boobs to cover.”

The masseuses greeted us, we tailed them.

“Please, undress yourselves to a level of comfort.”

Andrea only removed a necklace and a watch.

“You will have to excuse her, she is a prude,” I revealed my saggy butt to the room. “And please excuse my flaccid butt, I am a writer.”

“Yeah, but it has to be that hairy?” Andrea grimaced embarrassedly.

We both lay facing down as hot stones were placed on our backs. I closed my eyes to the calm music and suddenly was transported to the day I met her. We both worked at Walmart, she was an Executive Watermelon Supervisor, and I was the Manager Cereal Vigilante. I observed the fruit area where she walked foxily, and made a cringe attempt of asking her out. I needed a boost of confidence so I picked up a watermelon and played with it as I blurted my proposition.

“Would you like to get a coffee with me?”

“OK.”

It was a personal victory for me so I threw the watermelon trying to dunk it into the shelf but due to a slight miscalculation, it landed right on her face. I shun from the scene and she was taken to the hospital. Remorse kept me awake all night.

“I forgot to tell her when the date is!”

After the fabulous massage, we went to have dinner at a fancy place called Asilos Magdalena. A maître d' with slicked-back long hair and a goatee assigned us a table at the bottom of the restaurant—beside the restrooms. Still, the place was beautiful, it had no windows, and was dimly lighted, but it also reeked of cigarette smoke. It was not a romantic place, but an exclusive one. We were given a sturdy and large menu bigger than our own table, but to our surprise, it was just the cocktail menu. We both ordered a water bottle and, I should have known better, the water came in a bottle smaller than a double-A battery. We had a highly touchy conversation about how deep our love is, we got all emotional and cheesy despite the speakers blaring with a young male moaning with autotune—he could have been being sodomised and nobody would notice as long as there is a drumbeat. Andrea—soon de Santos—is the love of my life and the only girl I would marry, because she has been there through my roughest days and not a single time has she left me hanging. Even if our promise of love withers over time, I am sure she is the best candidate for being my life’s partner. I had never met someone as funny, motherly, and warm, and perhaps she is not a great cook but I am also not a great eater, I could eat a burnt omelette and I would never notice, so it does not matter. I am so glad that you will be my wife, Andrea de Santos, I said. Her eyes grew lachrymose, and so did mine but especially after I saw the big number on the check.

Special thanks to Nay Cabrales for helping me pose in this publication’s picture.