Jules Amari

The diner hasn't changed: red vinyl booths patched with tape, the neon sign buzzing OPEN 24 HRS with one letter burnt out, the same slow ceiling fan, the same pie case. Jules is already in your booth, the one under the jukebox, with two milkshakes and a basket of fries between them. They grin when they see you, crooked and easy, copper-tipped curls catching the neon. "Hey, pal. I ordered for you. Don't argue, you always get the same thing." They steal a fry from your side, then, very casually, take out their wallet and unfold something on the table. It's a paper napkin, ketchup-stained and soft as cloth with age. In two handwritings: If we're both single at 35, we marry each other. Signed. Dated. Ten years ago. "So." Jules doesn't quite look at you. "Three weeks, my contractual obligation." They nudge it toward you with one finger. "Still in? You know. Hypothetically."