Friday, October 7, 2011


A waking dream. She is standing in a white room with gold accents. Very pretty, rather French in her home-grown opinion. The mirror in front of her is edged in gold and reflects the white dress back into the white room. Smooth satin white satin encases her-- simply designed and classically cut, the dress is beyond expensive while remaining demure. Pearl buttons run down her back and cap sleeves keep her arms from bare. The shoes are too big, plain white pumps that someone lent her. 

She descends the staircase with difficulty, only just keeping the shoes on. Pause for breath at the door and...enter. The room is small, again in the pretty, delicate, gold-laced style of the dressing room. A back room, more used to meetings than tiny weddings. Four steps take her down the aisle and then she is by him. She doesn't really know why-- she scarcely knows him. But he asked. And she said yes. 

Suddenly the dreamy feeling is gone and she looks around this small room with the plush chairs and sprays of flowers carefully squeezed into the corners. She looks at his two sisters at the front in pink satin tea-dresses and the sober face of the pastor, words droning into the half-awake crowd. Then she runs. 

There is a small white scooter outside-- the getaway car-- and she shakes off the silly shoes while hiking up the simple gown before racing away into the daylight. The scooter takes her away from the posh hotel, straight through the diners on the lawn, and into the streets of the city. Dodging in and out of traffic, riding alongside vendors, then the river, she shakes her hair lose as she goes. No one is coming after her; she races in freedom.

She ponders the day as she goes-- why is she here, marrying this man she barely knows, just because she wants to be married. How ludicrous! How stupid... Colors fly by and people shout but she ignores them all.

Eventually she is stopped by a flight of steps, back at the venue. Tempted to take the bike down the steps and into the perfectly manicured garden, she pauses. She should go in, tell them it's over. He didn't even come after her! for pete's sake... Or she could just go! And be gone. That's what they all think happened anyways. Just go.

The groomsmen are there suddenly, one gripping the bike handles, the other two helping her off. One gives her a bashful grin but there is censure in his face too. 
"He really loves  you, you know. I've never seen him so happy, but now..." She nods, feelings like a dream is overtaking her again. The dress is mussed, she thinks, and my hair is a mess. With the dirty-edged gown trailing on the ground, she descends another staircase, this time the stone cold on her bare feet. He waits there, watching. No smiles-- he isn't really the spontaneous smiler-- but all kinds of angst wait for her in that garden. But he holds out his hand and it's warm and familiar and just right somehow. Neither of them speak but the walk into the garden, hand in hand, as a light breeze pulls away the last of her pin-perfect curls and his shoulders are sloped forward, not a happy man. She leans in, he pulls away and laughs before pulling her close and leading her into a dance in time with the breeze. 

The groomsmen go inside and tell everyone to wait a bit. She is back.

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