The day after he suggested it, Arthur Penn slipped up. It was just a tiny error, most folks wouldn't even notice but for Arthur, the whole thing felt like everything had suddenly fallen apart. He let his Earl Grey brew a minute too long almost three quarters past the right time. Arthur stayed in his kitchen, eyes fixed on the timer sitting nearby. Numbers flashed 3:45, cold and sharp. That exact mix of bergamot with black tea should've been left for precisely three minutes instead. The tea got messed up. Because of that, it'd taste sharp. Since the tannins were strong, the drink wouldn't be smooth. Arthur dumped the whole pot into the sink, eyes on the murky swirl fading out. A chill crept up his neck, skin tingling. His fingers trembled, jittery without reason. He trembled not from the drink. As drowsiness faded, recollections of yesterday's late hours slammed into him, sudden like a shelf collapsing.
He was engaged to a lady who let damp grow in her coat's little rooms. Arthur gripped the edge of the granite countertop. "It was a hallucination," he whispered to the empty, pristine room. "A stress-induced psychosis brought on by the threat of the Offshore Rig." That must've been the answer. This guy, Arthur Penn who sorted his socks by shade and kept three gadgets just to check how damp the air was, wouldn't randomly ask some random person to marry him in a wet backyard. Didn't make sense. Too chaotic. He checked the date pinned up. It was a Tuesday. He needed to head to his job. Yet he also had to deal with what life threw at him.
Arthur got ready like clockwork, but messed up his tie two times. Then again, he walked through the place just once more. On the walls, there were eighteen clocks all ticking together, making a steady hum-hum-hum that normally slowed his pulse. Only now, it felt less like rhythm, more like seconds slipping away. Tick-tock. Nope, you're not telling the truth. Time's running. Oh no, you're stuck. He took his briefcase yet stepped out into the morning air.
The train trip felt hazy, full of nerves. Anyone who glanced his way appeared aware. The lady flipping through pages, the guy snoozing with drool both somehow stared like they knew. That's the pretend partner, their silence whispered. As Arthur swiped his badge at the Grand Archivum, he paused. Today, those thick steel doors didn't seem safe, more like stepping into a trial. He headed toward the lift. Then he hit the number four. The gates swung apart. There she stood, Cleo Vance, right inside. Arthur froze.
Cleo seemed rougher than she probably should've been. This time it was a navy-blue hoodie, way too big on her frame. Her gaze stayed down, nearly pressed into her own collarbone. The canvas bag sat gripped hard to her gut. Arthur walked in. Then the doors shut, locking them into a steel chamber. Quiet hung there, heavy but strange.
Arthur coughed once. "Morning."
Cleo jerked back a little. Then she twisted her head, glancing out from under her hood. Her eyes went big, zipping across the elevator like they hunted secret bugs or something. While scanning every corner. Cleo barely whispered her throat dry. So she gulped air, then gave it another go. Could the deal still be running?
Arthur watched the lights above the elevator door two then three, "I was hoping," Arthur said stiffly, "that it was a shared delusion."
"I checked my heart rate data from yesterday," Cleo mumbled, tapping a chunky smartwatch on her wrist. "I had a spike of 140 beats per minute at 1:03 PM. That correlates with the handshake."
Arthur sighed. "Then it happened."
"The transfer list comes out in six days," Cleo said, her voice gaining a frantic edge. "If we aren't on the exemption list by then... Siberia. The Rig. The noise."
Arthur jerked back. That thought hit home. Seeing his old clocks rotting in the sea spray? Made up his mind right then.
"We proceed," Arthur said firmly. "However, we cannot simply say we are engaged. We require evidence. Documentation."
A ring," she said quietly.
Arthur felt his stomach drop. "Yes. A ring. It is the primary visual signifier of the marital contract."
The lift made a sound when it reached level four.
"Meet me at lunch," Arthur said, keeping his voice low. "Not in the cafeteria. It's too public. The East Stairwell. Top landing. 12:05 PM."
Cleo gave a quick nod, her face pale with fear, then the doors slid open. Arthur moved fast toward his desk, not turning around even once.
The morning dragged by like fog. While Arthur attempted fixing a worn ledger from the 1920s, his fingers kept slipping almost spilling glue right onto the paper.
Right at 12:05 PM, he stepped into the East Stairwell, dusty air mixed with bleach hit his nose right away. This place was made of bare concrete, quiet, hardly anyone came through here since folks usually took the lifts instead. Cleo sat up ahead, perched on the highest stair, arms wrapped around her legs. A small notebook rested on her thighs while she gnawed one corner of a pen. Though quiet, her eyes flickered with restless thought.
I drew a diagram," she told him while Arthur took a seat on the stair beneath, keeping about three feet between them.
She spun the notebook toward him. Covered in messy sketches, lines pointing everywhere, decisions branching off - like something meant to fire rockets, not spark love.
"Phase 1: Acquisition of Assets (Ring)," Cleo read, pointing to a box. "Phase 2: The Announcement (Boss). Phase 3: Behavior Modification."
Behavior change? he wondered, lifting one brow.
"We act like strangers," Cleo said bluntly. "I analyzed our workplace proximity. We have never been seen eating together. We have never walked in together. If we suddenly say we are getting married in a year, people will calculate the probability as zero. They will suspect fraud."
Arthur gave a quick nod - she had a point. True, she was disorganized, yet everything made sense somehow.
"We need a backstory," Arthur said. "How did we meet? When did this affection begin?"
Cleo looked at the ceiling. "We can't say we met at work. We don't talk at work."
"A hobby?" Arthur suggested. "Perhaps we met at a convention?"
"I don't go to conventions," Cleo shuddered. "Too many people."
"I go to Antique Clock Auctions," Arthur said.
Cleo looked at him. "Do I look like I go to Antique Clock Auctions?"
Arthur checked her out, sneakers covered in sharpie doodles. A small bandage stuck to her thumb, slightly peeling at one edge. Kinda seemed like she'd been raised among dusty bookshelves underground.
"No," Arthur admitted. "You do not."
"The park," Cleo suggested. "I go to the park to collect moss samples on rainy days. You walk through the park?"
"I walk through the park to get to the tea shop on 4th Street," Arthur said. "I enjoy the solitude of rain."
"Okay," Cleo scribbled furiously. "The Narrative: We met in the park. It was raining. We were the only two people there. You saw me doing what?"
"Looking at the ground," Arthur said.
"And I saw you, walking fast to avoid getting wet," Cleo said. "We exchanged a glance. A moment of shared introversion."
"It is plausible," Arthur agreed. "It fits our psychological profiles."
"Then we started texting," Cleo continued. "Digital communication is safer. We realized we both hate noise. We bonded over silence."
Arthur sensed something odd in his heart. Actually, that bit was true.
"Acceptable," Arthur said. "Now, the ring. We cannot announce this without one. Henderson will want to see it."
Cleo glanced at her palms. Her digits were thin, light often marked by smudges of ink or dirt. "No cash for a shiny rock. Besides, I'm not into them; digging 'em up harms people and land."
"I have savings," Arthur said, straightening his posture. "However, I am frugal. We do not need an expensive ring. We need a convincing ring."
"There is a jewelry district downtown," Cleo said, checking her phone. "It closes at 7 PM. We have to go after work."
Arthur checked his watch. "5:15 PM. We leave exactly then."
The Jewelry District felt like a personal hell for Arthur. It was 5:45 PM. Crowds filled the roads, workers heading home, sightseers looking around, pairs strolling while linked at the fingers. Fumes mixed with the scent of warm nuts in the breeze. Lights blinked loud and fast on every corner. Arthur carried his briefcase tight against his chest, almost like armor. As he moved, he focused on slowing down each breath. Breathe in count to four, then pause same count, finally let it go, step by step. Each rhythm matched his pace, steady but tense. Beside him, Cleo kept twitching her hood yanked up till just her nose poked out. Not walking beside, but lagging half a step back, hiding behind his height like it blocked the rush of people. Each bump from strangers made her jerk sideways, tense as a snapped wire.
"Too many variables," she muttered. "Too much input."
"Stay close," Arthur said, surprised by his own command. "Do not engage with the pamphlet distributors."
They paused by a shop named Glitter & Gold. Its storefront glowed so hard it hurt your eyes.
"Here?" Cleo asked.
"It seems adequate," Arthur said.
They shoved the door wide. Inside, a sharp beep rang out sudden, grating, way too loud. The shop was tiny, reeking of cologne. Right away, a clerk appeared hair piled high, grin wide enough to seem fake.
"Welcome! Welcome, lovebirds!" she shrieked.
Arthur moved away slowly. Meanwhile, Cleo ducked behind some shiny earrings.
"Looking for something special? An anniversary? A promise ring? Or..." The woman wiggled her eyebrows. "...the big question?"
Arthur coughed his throat was dry, rough. "Looking for rings that mean something. Not flashy. Quiet."
Cleo murmured, "Cheap too," just behind him.
The saleswoman blinked her grin slipped just slightly but snapped back bright and wide. "Sure thing! Watching your spending? Totally smart move these days. Follow me."
She took them toward a glass case at the rear. The warmth hit Arthur as he stepped inside. His skin crawled thinking about microbes on the surface. Still, he held back from cleaning it with his cloth.
Here's the 'Eternity Lite' set,' she said while sliding out a tray.
Arthur stared at the rings. Shiny ones, those. Tiny, too.
"Give it a go," the lady urged, taking hold of Cleo's hand just as she started to yank it back.
Cleo froze. Wide-eyed, she panicked. A ring tiny diamond glittering slid onto her finger, pushed by the woman's hand.
"Oh, a perfect fit! Look at that sparkle!"
Cleo glanced at her palm like it didn't belong to her anymore. "Feels thick," she muttered.
"It feels real, doesn't it?" the woman beamed.
Arthur glanced at Cleo. Her breath hitched, eyes wide fear creeping in. The saleswoman hovered near, voice sharp, hands everywhere. Any second now, she'd run. Arthur moved ahead. For no clear reason, his mind flipped - away from saving himself toward guarding what mattered. Yet something inside just told him to act.
"Hey," Arthur snapped, tone firm, words quick.
The clerk glanced his way.
"My fiancée," Arthur said, the word feeling like a stone in his mouth, "prefers silver. And she has a sensitivity to strong scents. Your perfume is overwhelming her."
The saleswoman flinched, taken aback. "Now that's something.."
"We will take that one," Arthur pointed to a plain silver band with a small, cubic zirconia stone. "And a matching male band. We will pay cash. Please box them immediately. We are in a rush."
His voice sounded just like it did when he scolded new archivists for messing up old papers firm, sharp, leaving no room to push back. The lady rushed to pack the jewelry. Five minutes passed, yet they stood once more outside. Arthur let out a breath slow, shaky. It was as if he'd barely stopped something exploding. Cleo gripped the tiny velvet pouch. Then she glanced his way, the hood dipping a bit behind.
"You yelled at her," Cleo said.
"I did not yell," Arthur corrected, adjusting his coat. "I provided efficient instructions to expedite the transaction."
"You saved me," Cleo said. "She was touching my cuticle."
"It was unhygienic," Arthur agreed.
They strolled without talking through several streets till spotting a tiny park that had a snack machine. This spot felt peaceful.
"We should put them on," Cleo said.
They plopped down on a bench. Inside his pocket, Arthur gripped the little velvet pouch. With one tug, he pulled it open. Under the glow of the lamp, dull silver bands shimmered. He passed the tiny ring to Cleo. After a pause, she slipped it on her fourth finger, left hand. A tad big still, it didn't fall off.
She held her hand up. "It feels... weird. Like a shackle."
"It's like being chained," Arthur muttered, slipping on his ring, chilly prickled over his flesh. "Ties us into the story." He stared at his palm. That band seemed out of place. Wearing trinkets wasn't his thing. Broke up the balance of his digits.
"Alright," Cleo muttered, yanking her notebook back out. So much for step one done. Next up? The rules
"The Marriage Manual," Arthur nodded.
"Rule Number One," Cleo said, writing as she spoke. "No physical contact unless absolutely necessary for visual confirmation by third parties."
"Agreed," Arthur said. "Hand holding is permitted only when Henderson is watching."
"Rule Number Two," Cleo said. "We do not enter each other's apartments."
"Essential," Arthur said. "My environment is calibrated."
"Rule Number Three," Cleo chewed her pen. "If one of us gets caught, we take the fall alone. We don't drag the other down."
Arthur glanced her way. Yet she just kept staring back, her eyes deep, unblinking.
"No," Arthur said.
Cleo blinked. "No?"
"That is illogical," Arthur said. "If one falls, the other is exposed immediately. The deception requires two pillars. If one collapses, the roof comes down."
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"Rule Number Three: We protect the lie at all costs. We are a team. Until day 365."
Cleo looked his way, just for a sec. After that, she gave a gradual nod. Writing it out came next.
"We protect the lie," she repeated.
"Tomorrow," Arthur said, standing up. "We tell the boss."
"Tomorrow," Cleo repeated, rising to her feet while holding tight to her bag.
Goodnight, Cleo," Arthur said. Almost slipped, nearly used Ms. Vance instead. But they're getting married. Gotta stick to her first name from now on.
Goodnight, Arthur," she tried out the word. Weird how it felt in her mouth.
Arthur saw her head off to the subway, tiny in an oversized hoodie, dragging along a flimsy silver ring and a huge secret. While she moved farther, he stood still, caught in the moment. Though it looked ordinary, everything felt heavy. As the city hummed on, his thoughts didn't match the pace. Because one glance said more than words ever could. He stared at his palm. Then, the band sparked under the glow. Tick-tock. One year minus a day left.