Married to Krampus - Marina Simcoe Page 0,7
that?”
“I don’t know...” I shifted uneasily. “Maybe, to break the ice? Talking helps people to get to know each other. Does it not?”
Now, he seemed genuinely confused.
“How does learning about the clothes-making process in Voran help you get to know me better?”
I heaved another long breath.
“Well...”
I had nothing.
“I don’t know,” I gave up.
“There must be some better suited questions,” he pressed on. “Why don’t you just ask me exactly what you want to know?”
And now, I felt idiotic for even opening my mouth at all.
“Okay, um...” I frantically searched my brain. Panic filled me since I couldn’t come up with one remotely intelligent thing to ask. Everything seemed either ill-timed or plain stupid.
It wasn’t that I didn’t have questions. I had at least a million, but now none of them seemed smart or important enough. I was worried about his reaction. So far, he’d acted unimpressed or even severely annoyed by me, which made me even more self-conscious and, at the moment, less able to say anything at all.
“Is there something you would like to ask about me? Maybe?” I said, hoping to change the topic.
“No,” he replied confidently.
“Nothing?” I blinked, unsure whether I felt surprised or offended, or both, by his complete and utter lack of interest. “Is that why you never contacted me at all? Because you didn’t care?”
He shifted in his seat, rolling his shoulders back and stretching his neck.
“The best way to get to know a person is to spend some time with them, in person. I got all the preliminary information I needed from your file.”
“Oh, you’ve read my letter, then?” I asked, with renewed hope.
I was actually really proud of the letter I’d written to accompany my application. It had turned out a bit long, about twelve pages in total. In it, I’d been able to express my hopes and dreams pretty accurately, I thought, as well as give the reader a fairly good idea about myself as a person.
Could I have written it so well, that it left no room for any further questions?
“No. I didn’t read the letter,” the Colonel replied.
“You didn’t?” I breathed out, deflated.
“There was no point.” He shrugged again. “You were coming here soon enough, anyway.”
I bit my lip. Obviously, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about my hopes and dreams.
“Listen.” I rubbed my forehead, trying to make sense of it all. “Why did you choose me? I’ve been told there were quite a few candidates.”
“A lot,” he huffed, grumpily. “Thousands.”
“Why me then?”
He fiddled with some buttons on the control panel. It didn’t result in any visible changes to the course of our aircraft.
“I liked your picture,” he said after a minute or two.
“That’s it? Just the picture?”
The instructions stated that the application photo had to be unaltered. I couldn’t add a pretty filter to it. That picture was all me, unembellished, save for some light makeup.
I’d been called “pretty,” but realistically, there were a million better-looking women out there—taller, slimmer, with glowing skin. I simply couldn’t have been the most beautiful girl out of thousands.
“What did you like about my picture?”
“It was bright,” he explained.
“Bright?”
He nodded. “Your clothes reminded me of the women of Voran. And your hair matched your outfit.”
I thought back to what I was wearing in that picture—a sunflower-print dress with a frilly skirt and a green headband. The dress made me feel happy, and I’d thought the hairband looked nice in my reddish hair. Apparently, the outfit turned out bright enough to attract the Colonel’s attention.
“So, you’ve chosen your potential future life-partner based on nothing but her clothes and hair color?” I stared at him, flabbergasted. Even if he just wanted a nanny for his children, shouldn’t there have been a more complicated selection process? Either way, he was choosing a person to spend at least a year with, under the same roof?
Talk about leaving it to chance.
The Colonel must have seen my bewilderment.
“How would you choose in my place?” He glanced at me with a flash of curiosity in his eyes.
“Based on personality, of course,” I replied quickly. “I’d love to know the person’s likes and dislikes. There are special compatibility tests—”
“Is that how marriages happen on Earth?” he interrupted. “By utilising tests?”
“Well, not exactly. Though the dating apps and agencies use some kind of formula, I believe.”
“And how does it work out for humans? How strong are your marriages?”
“Well it works well for some couples, for most even. The divorce rate on Earth is somewhere between forty and fifty percent...”
“What?” He huffed.