Just wrapped up with another client, and now I'm on the lookout for a happening spot to park and wait for the next one. As I pull over, I stretch my arms, crank up an upbeat tune on the radio, humming along with the lyrics while tapping my fingers animatedly on the steering wheel.

At the same time, a bride faces the man her family has chosen for her—a man so repulsive that the mere thought of kissing him makes her gag. But hey, tradition's tradition, right? Generations of women in her family have been shackled to these arranged marriages. It's like a twisted business merger: 'Hey, let's join forces and get rich together!' Barely enduring the saccharine speeches and false vows, her mind spins as the priest asks for the second time, 'Do you accept Alfredo Martin as your husband?' Accept? The pressure of the priest's gaze, her 'future husband's,' and all the guests in the church—everything drives her to act irrationally (or perhaps not so irrational after all). She simply responds, 'No,' and bolts desperately toward the church exit. The church erupts in gasps as Alfredo and her family widen their eyes, rising and chasing after the young woman.

Amidst the rhythm of the music, I startle at the sound of yells and pleas, glancing toward the car window, I watch what appears to be a bride running toward my car, with at least three people in pursuit. I've watched enough action flicks to know what's up. I rev the engine, palms slick against the wheel, swallowing nervously as the bride swings open the car door and practically hurls herself inside, diving headfirst into my car like her life depends on it. (Maybe it does, who knows?)