If Strickler and Barbara ever mend, I don’t want them to get married.
I want them to get troll-married: in the dark depths of some obscure forest, complete with a wacky assortment of folk instruments and linked-elbows dancing by the fire, wearing ostentatiously ugly garlands of plants, colorful stones, metals, socks, and random, shiny cooking utensils. They’d take a blood-vow to represent the merging of their lives, which Stricklander must assure Barbara, “is only symbolism”.
It’d be a small but uproarious occasion. Now in college, Jim and Claire would be trying to pick up the ceremonial dance. Blinky would be watching them proudly, and helping himself to the odd cuisine. Draal would be some order of drunk, singing merrily, yet terribly. Eli would be there, starry-eyed and frantically Snapchatting everything he sees, but his iPhone mysteriously can’t record anything in the bounds of the party. Toby and Darci would be sampling the troll concoctions–with hysterical results. Mary would be hanging onto some troll, with zero chance of getting lucky. Steve, now a less obnoxious young man, would leave early, terrified out of his mind.
And NotEnrique would be the spiciest dancer of them all.