On the day of their wedding, she came, with flowers adorning her hair and ribbons circling her arms. She was arrayed in the simple white gown he had sent her, and on a delicate chain around her neck she wore the silver heart-shaped locket he had given her on the day he became her beau. He had put their pictures together inside it, murmuring words of endearment and happiness and forever, dear, dear heart. You know how these declamations of love go, when lovers are giddy and new.
He approached her before the ceremony started, smiling with no hint of nervousness, only of excitement.
“You look lovely,” he told her, beaming. “That dress suits you very well.”
“You look dashing too,” she replied, eyeing the white suit he wore and remembering the way he had played Prince Charming, onscreen and in her life. He was her fairy tale—although of course she was too smart to really believe in that. Yet as he left her to take his place in front of the altar her eyes that never strayed from him saw not his receding back but daydreams the hue of strawberry cotton candy—rosy, sweet, sometimes too sweet.
The piano started playing, and she walked the length of the carpet, her feet dragging. She kept her eyes down, on the floor or on the bouquet she was carrying, afraid that if she looked ahead she would see him smiling at her and imagine that he was waiting to reach out for her hand. A few steps before she reached the altar and him, she turned right, stepped on a podium, took the microphone, and turned it on.
She sang. On the first note she let out, the church doors opened and in walked his bride, resplendent and beautiful, and very, very happy. His eyes grew wide as he saw the woman he was about to marry, then crinkled with a smile and never left his bride’s face. Still the other woman sang, sang of love and bliss and promises of eternity, and with her singing sounded a chorus of sighs and smiles and tears of gladness. You know how these weddings go, when people believe they’ve attained happily-ever-after.
She sang of vows they had given to each other, sang of castles in the air they had built together, sang words she had wanted to say to him. She knew that aches were what one got for dreaming too much and too sweetly, but she dreamed on anyway, allowing herself to pretend for a moment that it was her hand he took, that it was she he pulled towards the altar and knelt down with. But even a moment of dreaming can prove too much, and she finished her song with a broken voice and the beginnings of tears. She stepped down from the podium and returned to her seat, hoping they would think she was too touched and too happy for the couple that her mascara threatened to run. Actually she was never one to cry at weddings.
As they recited their vows, she silently promised herself something too—to someday love after love, with a lighter heart. As they exchanged rings, she took the locket he had given her from its chain and removed the pictures within. As they kissed, she joined in the chorus of cheers and applause.
When the ceremony ended, she rose to take her leave, her fist tight around the silver heart. Again, she congratulated him, and reached out to shake his hand. Then she let go and walked away with a smile and tripping steps, carrying the locket and its weight no more.
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