Week 0
Foster remembered, exactly, when it was he got it into his head to get married.

It was the time he leaned over his cubicle to see Donovan taking a bite out of a dripping, overstuffed roast beef on rye too big, too thick, and too appetizing to have come from the cafeteria.

“New restaurant?” he asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. He had a weakness for roast beef on rye. Heck, he had a weakness for food in general, especially when they looked like they had come straight out of Bon Appetit, the bread just the right shade of brown, the beef sliced in equal thinness.

“Nope,” Donovan said. “My wife made it.”

Donovan took a big, sloppy bite, getting a bit of gravy on his cheek. Foster found himself in the act of wiping his own cheek but catching drool on the back of his hand instead. He wasn’t distracted enough though to remember what Donovan had just said. That was news to him.

“Since when have you been married?” Foster asked.

“Officially? Two weeks ago,” he said, mouth half full.

Foster was surprised. Donovan had always struck him as the perpetual bachelor type. Receding hairline, puppy-dog eyes, cheeks that were slowly turning into jowls, and the carefree manner of a frat boy, he was forever sending the receptionists into giggling fits over one thing or another. As a cubicle neighbor, he was okay, never bothering Foster except for the occasional paper clip or a little of the small talk that was essential to corporate survival.

“Congratulations,” Foster said. He would have shook one of Donovan’s hands, but they were currently busy with the sandwich.

“Thanks,” he said.

“So what’s it like?” Foster asked, “Being married?”

“It’s great! Donovan exclaimed, spewing out pieces of roast beef. “It’s like a vacation. I wake up, the wife’s made breakfast and packed my lunch. I eat, she kisses me off, I go to work. I get home, the house is sparkling, the wife’s made dinner, and has a Bud chilling in the fridge for me. Some nights, we chill and watch TV, but most of the time—” he paused, then said, with eyes closed as if remembering, “We fuck like rabbits. It’s a really sweet deal.”

Foster stared at him. “Did you just step out of the 50s?” he asked incredulously. Either he was making it up, or he had found the most perfect, most gullible woman in the world.

“Wanna see her picture?” Donovan asked, popping the last of the sandwich in his mouth and licking his fingers.

This was the longest conversation Foster had ever had with his neighbor, and now he knew why: the man was a self-centered misogynist. But he had piqued his curiosity, him and his goddamned sandwich. Foster didn’t even realize that lunch hour was almost over, and he hadn’t gone out to eat, focused as he was on Donovan.

“No, found. She’s a mail order bride from the Philippines. You know how hot those third-world chicks are to marry white guys. I picked her out, paid for her to come over, married her, and now I live like a king.”

Donovan wiped his fingers on the napkin (that his wife, no doubt, had packed for him) then, out of habit, on his pants before fishing out his wallet from his back pocket. He flipped it open, and Foster found himself staring at a photograph of Donovan with his arms around the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was either Filipino or Thai, with long black hair, big expressive eyes, milk chocolatey brown skin, and lips you could lose yourself in. She was wearing a satin spaghetti-strapped blouse and no bra, her nipples hard through the fabric. Foster could imagine Donovan’s swarthy hands groping her even as she smiled devotedly at him, and he could tell that it would be very easy indeed to “fuck like rabbits” with her. That she could also cook almost blew his mind.

“She’s hot,” he exclaimed before he could stop himself.

“Isn’t she?” Donovan agreed. “She’s perfect.”

“How did you get her to marry you?” Foster asked. “No offense, Don, but she seems way out of your league.”

“Found her on the Internet,” Donovan said.

“You mean you met her on the Internet.”

“No, found. She’s a mail order bride from the Philippines. You know how hot those third-world chicks are to marry white guys. I picked her out, paid for her to come over, married her, and now I live like a king.”

His statement didn’t sit well with Foster. How pathetic did you have to be to buy a bride online? Yet as one side condemned the practice as subhuman, another part of him was thinking about what a good deal it was.

“What’s the URL?” Foster asked.

“Siquijorbrides.com.”

“Seek-ye-whore?” Foster repeated. “This isn’t a porn site, is it?”

“It’s a province in the Philippines, asshole,” Donovan said. “Go ask Santiago.”

Santiago was the Auditing Department’s token Flip. He had initially been brought in to fill the government quota for minority employees but was soon doing better than most at the department. He was up for a promotion next month, just after a year in the company.

Foster didn’t want to ask Santiago about something as silly as a bride-supplying province, but he wanted to make sure that Donovan wasn’t pulling his leg, either. He excused himself and found Santiago just returning to the office after lunch.

“Hey, Santi,” he said, falling in step with him.

“What’s up, Foster?” Santiago asked. “Looking for the files on the Thompson Account?”

“Nothing like that,” Foster said, then paused. “It’s not work-related.”

“What is it then?” Santiago asked.

“You grew up in the Philippines, right?”

“No,” Santiago said carefully, “I grew up in Georgia. My parents brought me here when I was two. What’s this about?”

“Have you ever heard of a province called Seek-ye-whore?”

Santiago thought for a minute, then said, “Yeah, my parents used to scare us with it when we were kids. It’s famous for being bewitched. People believe that everyone who lives there has some nasty occult stuff going on. Why?”

“Helping my niece with homework,” Foster said. “Thanks, man.”

Santiago shrugged. “Not a problem.”

That’s how Foster found himself checking out siquijorbrides.com.

And that’s when he decided that he wanted to get married.

The name of the website was misleading. That was the first thing Foster realized. The women on the site didn’t look like whores. Beautiful, all of them, with smooth brown skin and big gorgeous eyes framed demurely by a curtain of dark lashes and soft lips that invited you into their long, slender arms. Their headshots, though inexpertly done, looked more like model name cards than ID pictures. Their full body shots had them in tank tops and tiny skirts or hot pants indulging in domestic duties like cooking and cleaning and doing the laundry. It would have been absolutely ridiculous if the girls weren’t so hot. The site was written in substandard but passable English, with the women grouped according to their domestic specialty—cooking, housekeeping, laundry, and so forth.

Foster studied their profiles, wondering if he should pick Nora, who loved to clean house, or Vilma, who was first in her high school English class, or Gloria, who “loved to laundry,” if only because the statement made him laugh. He was beginning to call the whole thing off, to chalk it up to a silly disconnect in his brain when he happened on Luli. The perfect girl. He didn’t know what it was that made her stand out, that drew him to her. Maybe it was the mischievous twinkle in her eyes, or the slight upturn of her mouth that made it look like she was neither smiling nor frowning, or her sweet, innocent face that made it look like she needed saving.
In her full-body picture, she was bending down against an open oven, caught in the act of bringing out a Thanksgiving turkey. Foster felt his pants tighten. Her shorts were so tiny he could see the lower part of her ass, while her low-cut tank top showed off her ample cleavage, which despite the downward angle seemed to defy gravity. The turkey she held in her hands was plump and perfectly browned. Foster could almost see juices bursting from inside it, its stuffing cooked just right—something to truly give thanks for. Luli listed her talents as cooking and singing, and her interests as “learning new recipes.”

Before he knew it, Foster was clicking on the “Marry Me” button under her picture and inputting his credit card number into the processing form. She didn’t come cheap, but overall, he spent less than what he expected, especially on her travel expenses. He was told that his transaction was a success and that he should be expecting his first shipment in three to six weeks, or after the papers were processed, whichever came first.

What? Foster did a double take. Did he just get conned into spending three months’ salary for a blow-up doll? Or maybe they were going to ship her stuff first then have her come by plane later. Or did they treat the women so much like stock that they actually referred to them that way? And what did “first shipment” mean? Was there a second? A third? Did she have so much stuff that they couldn’t fit it on a plane? Foster needed to know, but he didn’t want to come off like a fool. In the end, he swallowed his pride and asked Donovan about it.

“That’s right,” Donovan said when asked about the packages. “It’s like some miracle of science. That’s why the shipping cost is so low.”
Foster pressed further.

“I don’t want to spoil it for you,” Donovan grinned. “Only don’t fucking freak out. Oh, and just add water.”

Foster spent half of the next three weeks in excitement over Luli’s arrival and the other half in jealousy of Donovan and his daily lunches. One Monday, it was a giant pastrami sandwich with cob salad and a peach. Tuesday, it was a greasy, heart-stopping Sloppy Joe with home fries and homemade apple sauce. Wednesday, it was a Caesar chicken sub with oversized homemade chocolate chip cookies. By Thursday, Foster had taken to staying longer in the cafeteria so that he wouldn’t have to be tortured by the sight of Donovan munching on his appetizing meals made by his appetizing wife.

Page 1 of 6     1 2 3 > Last »