You’ll be on the bridge of a Turkish freighter when the caterer calls.

She’ll be whining about changing the vegetarian option from lasagna to eggplant. You could care less. Eggplant is fine, you’ll say. She’ll chirp something positive about the big day coming up. You’ll hang up without answering. She was pushed on you by your mother. Something about a co-worker’s daughter. You’ll have grown to hate your caterer.

You’ll have also grown to hate yourself. You’ll look down at your reflection in the instrument panel and see the face of a different woman. You’ll have smuggled guns across Asia in train cars. Diamonds through Africa in the anuses of livestock. Drugs up South America in the stomachs of senior citizens on cruises. Nothing has given you more stress than wedding planning.

You’ll take a long pull at the bottle of nondescript liquor being passed around by the crew. It will taste like coconut rum, which strikes you as a strange choice for Turkish pirates. It will remind you of the trip your boyfriend took you on to Costa Rica last year. He asked you to marry him on that trip. He gave you a ring and you put four kilos of uncut cocaine in his luggage.

Then it started. Endless phone calls and emails from your new staff of wedding professionals. “Our” florist. “Our” DJ. “Our” Israeli security team. Things had become very possessive. It will have made you feel heavy. You’ll want to feel light again. So here you are, off the Italian coast. As the anchor drops you’ll feel light again, knowing that you are living life on your own terms.

You’ll check on the cargo once more before unloading. You’ll swing open the container filled will hundred of crates of heroin-injected oranges. INTERPOL had called them ”Vitamin Wheeeee” which you enjoyed. You open the crate nearest you.

“Are you okay in there sweetie?” you’ll say to your boyfriend. Crap, fiancé. Who gave a shit really?

“Are we there yet?” he’ll say weakly. “I’ve had an enormous spider on my chest for the past three hours.”

“Shhhh darling. We’ll be there soon. Try to keep quiet. I love you.”

You’ll kiss him deeply then nail the crate shut.

He could have easily stayed with you in your cabin. The captain was an old friend of yours and really wanted to meet him. But the thrill was too much. Guns, drugs, jewels, fiancés: it didn’t matter. You always delivered. Now go bribe the Italian coast guard and start the rest of your life as a married woman.