Pseudo- in Matrimony

CHAPter 1

Yvonne parked her car on the sidewalk in front of her house.

The crusty old thing wailed and screeched as she forced it to come to a halt. She sighed and reminded herself, for the thousandth time, that she had to buy a new car.

The lady took hold of her phone and swiped through some messages, her dark eyes searching for one specifically. A frown placed itself on her forehead when she noticed that the person from whom she had been hoping to get a message had not sent her any. The last message in that chat was sent two weeks before and it was from her.

Yvonne was about to chuck the phone away when she spotted movement through the gaps between the flowery branches of her gate. Her little gate's door was swinging open and she scolded herself for always forgetting to lock it. A burglar had managed to get in and it scared her to the core.

Yvonne took in a deep breath and shoved the phone in her pockets. She hastily exited the car and went to her trunk where she took her hockey stick out.

Adrenalin waves rushed up her spine as she clutched the object in her hand and looked down at her outfit. She had never thought she would die in her hockey clothes, especially not immediately after she was kicked out of the team, but she was quite excited to hit something other than a ball with her hockey stick.

She was going to be known as the burglar slayer.

The fluffy-haired lady took silent steps to the gate and slowly pushed its door further open. Her heart hammered against her chest as she looked around but spotted no one. She remembered the movement from earlier being directed towards her little garden, so she silently went there, her head shooting every direction in case someone snuck up on her.

The girl reached to the side of her house, and when she peeped against the wall, she caught sight of her burglar. Only, he did not look much like one.

The man was seated cross-legged on the pavement of her little garden, with his back to her. She could tell that he was wearing a shiny, grey, expensive looking suit and the tips of his dress shoes looked more than polished. Even his hair was shining and sleek, the dark strands brushed back and groomed. He definitely was not a burglar. He looked like a man dressed up for a formal party, shiny from the head down.

Yvonne's grip on the hockey stick loosened a bit as she decided to approach the man like a civilized person and not a 'burglar slayer'. She was sure he was not a burglar, he looked like he could buy her house five times over.

The man did not turn to look at her when she was sure her footsteps were loud enough.

Up close, she noticed how his hand was lightly brushing the nearest plant. It was her roses, the ones she had worked herself to death to plant. She was towering above him and was sure her shadow could have gotten his attention but his gaze was firmly planted on the group of roses shadowed by her silhouette.

Yvonne frowned, thinking him rude before she decided to sit next to him, her hockey stick still in hand to show that she was ready to strike at any given moment, "It is rude to enter someone's home with no permission,"

The man ran his hand over the nearest rose again, and its thorn pricked a long trail across his finger, red liquid tainting his now wounded hand, "Roses are red, Violets are blue. Love is sweet, I doubt that's true."

"So, you're a poet? Lost an award then?" The young woman quirked a brow at the man's strange words and when she bent forward to steal a glance from him, she noticed the tears that were trailing down his cheeks.

Yvonne tilted her head in perturbation before she slowly asked, "Are you okay?"

The crying man nodded before he wiped his face with the hem of his suit sleeve. Then he chuckled ironically, "It's pathetic isn't it? A grown man crying like this?"