I have never had a single argument with my boyfriend.
I think my boyfriend, Hugh, is going to propose.
I accidentally found the ring and ruined the surprise (he hid it in his sock drawer).
I don’t know when he plans on popping the question, but my guess would be “soon.”
Maybe even “very soon.”
Whenever I’m facing a decision like this there’s a bench I like to go to. I call it my Thinking Place, and boy do I have some thinking to do.
Hugh wants me to marry him, but do I want to marry him?
Yes, I suppose I do. Hugh has been nothing but perfect to me. Since we first started dating we have never even had a single argument.
I’ve wanted to, but every time we’re about to argue Hugh pulls out a bouquet of flowers, or tickets to a show, and tells me how much he loves me.
That’s what’s got me worried… I’ve never actually seen Hugh angry. I don’t know how he sounds when he’s yelling, or how tight he clenches his fists when he’s mad.
When the ring’s on my finger will he still be the same man? Or when the first argument finally comes will I finally see the Real Hugh?
“Mind if I join you?”
I was so lost in thought that I didn’t hear someone walk up behind me.
“Uh—no, I don’t mind…” I trailed off as I turned to face the stranger.
I gasped at the sight of her.
Her face was mangled beyond recognition, with deep scars carved into her skin like a lattice. One eye had turned white from a nasty gouge, and the tip of her nose looked like it had been torn off.
“Thank you,” the stranger said, ignoring my gasp, “I like to come here when I have thinking to do.”
“Me too,” I hesitantly replied, “I call it my—”
“Thinking Place.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“It’s the only bench in the city that nobody ever seems to sit on. If you’re looking to be alone with your thoughts, there’s no better place.”
“Right,” I paused, “well, I should be going...”
I stood up to leave, but the stranger gently grabbed my wrist.
“Please stay, Emmy,” the stranger pleaded, “we need to talk.”
All the blood in my veins ran cold.
“How do you know my name?” I asked.
The stranger gently patted the bench, and I wanted to run, but my shoes felt like they were filled with cement.
Instead, I sat back down.
“Thank you,” the stranger smiled, showing numerous missing teeth, “I know you’re afraid, but we need to talk.”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“You can’t tell? Gosh, I guess Hugh really has done a number on me.”
“How do you know Hugh? You better start talking or—”
“You.”
“What?”
“I’m you.”
“You’re me?”
“Yes.”
I laughed, “no you’re not. I’m me.”
“Right,” the stranger said, “your birthday is October 17th, 1989.”
“Okay? That info is on Facebook. Everybody knows that.”
“You lost your virginity to Ricky Gonzales in the backseat of your parents' PT Cruiser.”
“That—” I blushed, “okay, less people know that.”
“You came here today because you found the wedding ring that Hugh hid in his sock drawer. You know he’s going to propose soon, but you’re worried that you don’t know the ‘real him,’ and, Emmy, I am telling you the ‘real him’ is so much worse than you could ever imagine.”
The stranger pulled up her sleeve. Her forearm looked like it had been chewed on by a rottweiler. On her wrist was a funny watch, like one of those calculator ones, only blocky and strange.
“Time Twister. That’s why you’ve never had an argument. He knows when they’re coming, and he always goes back in time and gets god damn flowers. We fell for it hook line and—”
“Wait,” I interrupted, “you’re trying to tell me that Hugh is a time traveler?”
“Yeah, lots of serial killers are.”
“Serial killers!?”
“It’s easier to get away with murder in the past. Plus if they even think they’re about to be caught they can just flee back to the future.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head, “no, no, no, no, this is ridiculous! You can’t honestly expect me to believe this?”
“Emmy, please,” the stranger begged, “you must believe me.”
“Well—I don’t! Hugh is not a serial killer!”
The stranger stood up and pulled up her sweater.
“This is what happened the first time we tried to leave.” She traced a jagged, zig-zagging scar across the bottom of her ribs. “The first of many. He always knew when I was gonna leave him. When he told me how he knew, I stopped trying to leave and started trying to kill him, and every time I failed the punishment got worse. It is very hard to kill someone who knows everything that is going to happen.”
“Why didn’t he—” I hesitated, not sure why I was even asking, “why didn’t he just kill you?”
“Because even Murderers get lonely, Emmy. It took years, but eventually I finally managed it, and now I’m here to undo everything he did to us. Tonight he’s going to take you out to dinner at Chrissy’s Lounge. After the main course he’s going to get down on one knee and propose. The second after you say ‘yes,’ when he feels completely safe, when everyone in the restaurant is applauding and distracting him, grab the steak knife on the table and plunge it into his throat.”
“No. I can’t kill Hugh. I love Hugh.”
“Have you not listened to a single thing I’ve said?” The stranger shouted. “He’s going to—no, wait!”
I got up to leave. This was too much.
“I’m sorry, please leave me alone.”
“Stop, please,” the stranger cried, exasperated, following behind my attempted escape, “no matter how many times we have this conversation you always go back to Hugh.”
“Wait,” I froze as her words began to slowly sink in, “‘how many times have we had this conversation?”
