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Simon’s standing out on the glorified fire escape that their super calls a balcony, enjoying the afternoon breeze and a smoke, when he hears Patty approach. Her bare feet thud gently against the warped hardwood and come to a stop behind him, just inside the open door.
“Hey Simon?” she asks.
“Mn?”
“Is it unpunk to get married?”
He half-chokes on his cigarette, nearly fucking swallows it, and then breaks it in two in his rush to snatch it out of his mouth and prevent its retreat down his esophagus. He’s not even upset, blindly stubbing out the remains against the railing as he turns to her with his eyes wide.
“What?” he manages, and it comes out a bit strangled. Before he even really realises it, he’s already mentally calculating travel time to the courthouse, wondering if you’re supposed to bring your own witness. Is she wearing any shorts under that oversized t-shirt, or just her underwear? He’s pretty sure they won’t let you into city hall without pants.
“I was just wondering if it would be unpunk to get married,” she repeats.
“Wh… what makes you ask?” he chokes out, his throat suddenly dry. The whole idea makes his knees weak (and his dick half hard), but he knows that with Patty, the question may well not indicate what it seems to.
“Oh,” she answers. “Madison’s twin sister just got engaged. I assumed it was good news, but then Maddie rolled her eyes and said it was kinda lame. Um, ‘taking a man’s name and agreeing to be defined as his wife for the rest of your life,’ she said. I guess she’s not into the idea.”
That’s ‘cause Madison’s a bitter, miserable carpet-muncher, Simon thinks, and he knows if he said it out loud it would make Patty snort a laugh, but all he can muster is a weak, “Ah. Okay.”
“So it made me wonder if getting married would make us less punk,” Patty continues absently, twisting her mouth and looking off to the side in consideration. “I don’t see why it should, but I guess I don’t know all the rules.”
“I… what?” Simon asks, feeling like he’s miles behind her in this conversation somehow, and dizzy to boot. Blindly, he gropes behind himself for the railing to lean against. “I mean… do you… would you want to?”
She meets his eyes again, thoughtful now. “Would you?” she counters.
“I– fuck, Patty,” he stammers, swiping his free hand back through his greasy hair. “If you wanted to, I’d fuckin’– I’d marry you today. Punk or not.” He can feel his face heat a bit, which is ridiculous.
“Huh,” she answers, and then smiles lightly, like she might do if they’d just agreed on what to make for dinner. “I didn’t know that.” Then, apparently interpreting this as the end of the conversation, she turns and wanders back into the apartment, returns to whatever she’d been doing before the question occurred to her.
“Patty?” he calls after her, his voice higher than he’d like, tripping over his own feet in the short distance to the door. He braces his hands on the doorframe and leans through to look for her, a little desperate and, honestly, a lot confused. “Patty, are you fucking with me?”