Naturally Karachi brought with it yet another prospective suitor. I think I've become quite the professional at meet-your-future-husband conversations. They're no longer quite as stilted as I remember. In fact, this last one was fairly comfortable exercise and while I am convinced we would not suit, I believe it was not an altogether unpleasant cup of coffee.
What continues to be unpleasant, however, is how my family seeks to remind me (over-and-over) again that the one-who-got-away has subsequently cast his eye on a lucky girl in Dhaka, who he's going to be marrying next month. The grandmother is at pains to inform me (and everyone within a 10 mile hearing radius) that this 'should' have been me. She reminds me that 'M' was quite madly in love with me (delirious, almost) and that a girl should always marry a man who loves her more than she loves him. Good advice, I admit, but fairly useless given that the option of marrying M died almost two years ago while I was still in NY. The way that the grandmother (and assorted aunts-once-removed) commiserate with me over M's impending marriage it's almost as if I am the forsaken one in this equation. I tell them (with a marked degree of impatience) that 'he' wanted to marry 'me'. Had the situation been reversed, perhaps I would not be sitting there listening to them whine about how I am still single. And even though there was nothing really wrong with him, there was nothing 'right' either and I maintain that I was/am/will-always-be perfectly justified in making a choice that was mine to begin with. But despite that, I find I still have to defend myself two frikking years later.
Honestly M, you're a nice guy and all, but right now your existence is a royal nuisance. And I sincerely hope that after you get married to my second-cousin's brother-in-law's sister's daughter, the chapter of my life with your name (almost-but-not-quite) on it is closed forever and ever. Amen.