I've been away watching two lovers tie the knot. Welcome to my marital bliss.
Love – A temporary insanity curable by marriage.
-Anonymous
Love – A temporary insanity curable by marriage.
-Anonymous
The engine was heard first, the airplane roared above our stretched necks, lingering fumes left only for our solace. I sat on the airplane shuttle watching a new mother methodically chew on the nail of her ring finger. The back and forth rub of the exposed and vexed skin against her crisp jeans stifled my own rising anxiety. Her husband sat silent, drumming the beat of his nerves against the pink toes of an infant. I hid my face behind a black backpack sat atop my lap, eager for my compulsive, and rather rude, as my mother would say, staring not to be recognized. The tops of curls bounced above a nylon material face, and straps for limbs swayed with the asphalt turbulence. My raw thumb begged for an end to my merciless thumbing of a silver locket. I do not like airports; they are reminiscent of goodbyes, and I do not like goodbyes.
My phone rang two months before; on a Saturday morning vibrations stirred the sleep of my hangover. "Hello?" I cleared my throat and coughed remnants of cigarette smoke into the receiver. "Morning, it's me Charlie. Did I wake you?" His soft voice was clear from the hacking cough of doubt. "Of course you did. How are you my friend?" I rolled onto my side and stared at the discarded clothes of the previous night now littering the carpeted floor – a purple tank top, the black lace of a bra, and dark wash jeans, a five dollar bill still hung from the back pocket. I smiled with the luck. "I'm getting married." I opened my mouth to insert a response, but warm breath and a bad taste formed only a thin attempt. The room rotated on its axis from the news – or the alcohol. "I want… I mean, we want you to come to the wedding." I fumbled in the pockets of my pajamas for likely excuses, but finding only lint, relented. The Alanis Morisette song "Ironic" rode a train through the space between my ears, stopping at the end of the pillowcase, I flicked the engineer from the driver's seat. "It's meeting the man of my dreams, and then meeting his beautiful wife."
I sat clutching a bag with contents to leave a last sigh of regret on the lips of a friend; heels to push my lowly existence above 5'6, a fortress packed with products to spring curls from my mane, and a black dress – a necessary part of a woman's arsenal – to materialize artificial curves. Perhaps, I reflected on the jostling ride, I was losing my soul mate. Wait, was that was the plot from the film "My Best Friend's Wedding"? Was I losing my soul mate, or an 8-year old boy who never tied his shoes and spoke with a lisp?
Their wedding photo arrived two weeks before I was to leave, with a handwritten note expressing her "absolute excitement" over our impending meeting – her spelling and grammar flawless. Damn it. She was beautiful, Arian good looks, with shoulder length blonde hair and blue eyes. I detected the faint hint of plastic surgery underneath her white sweater. The card read "Charlie and Stefanie", with an "f", the advantage of spelling for the younger version who would always receive attention when she politely pointed out the error. I sat upon a stool peering at the photo, desperate for a flaw, and nursed a tall glass of orange juice,
My mother's cooled voice floated through the kitchen, "Who's getting married?" "Charlie." She pried the photo from my iron grip. "Well he did well for himself."
I waited forty-five minutes for their car to arrive, watching LA spill past – the city that doesn't stop, that doesn't need air to breathe – people watching, and wondering where lives went after LAX. The car pulled up to the curb and out he stepped. He wore a tight t-shirt, purposely faded jeans, and wide sunglasses. I was looking at the west coast made shell of a man I no longer could distinguish. She sat behind the wheel, attentive to my needs – bed sheets, bottled water, and lavender bath towels – while swerving through LA traffic at 90 mph. My makeup must have been melting, having been applied 5 hours prior; I fumbled in my purse for remedies. Charlie had last seen me the summer of my 18th birthday, the high school graduate in heat and sweating hormones. I wondered which model was more preferred as his eyes removed of their shield caught my gaze in the side mirror powdering my glossy cheeks.
The next morning as we drove to the church, I had somehow been pinned to the tail coats of the groom's party; I gazed at all of the money stuffed into the California hills. "TNT" by AC/DC (pre-Brian Johnson) came through the speakers and a glimmer of doubt shined in his eyes; he looked at me and our could-be-life played across; the track changed to Ja Rule, and his attention shifted to the knee slapping meathead to my right.
The wedding party was coated in a film of plastic, and with my black dress, fuck off heels, and peacock feather tucked into my hair, I was Wednesday Addams crashing Barbie's pool party. The reception was in a golf cart community protected by tattooed, taser touting security guards. Twenty points if you hit one. Once admitted we drove over a causeway into a private paradise with street names like vacation and campground. Next to my name read "Shark's Cove", and so I sat with the other well dressed bait from San Francisco, where my naivety and mainstream appeal were apparent. I fled during moments of despair to the bathroom stalls where I passed love notes to my journal and laughed over the witty names now assigned to each member of Shark's Cove.
I returned from the bar having pilfered two extra drink tickets and sat lazily in the chair, my womanly grace all but lost in the Chardonnay. I had been instructed by the wedding veterans to maintain an air of class while clothed in a strapless bra and panties-less. I unwillingly shook my head from side to side at the suggestion of Bud Light by the bartender. I folded my hands around the glass and swallowed a meek measure of the liquid.
Charlie sat in the white folding chair next to mine twirling a pink rose. He took the glass from my misted palms and covered my hands with his. I thought of the ten year old edition of Charlie explaining the birds and bees to a very reluctant peer in the same manner. The shine of the gold ring circling his finger blinded my view into his eyes. I thought of the nail biting mother and instinctively withdrew my hand to the locket around my neck, but Charlie, sensing my apprehension, grabbed both wrists in midair. My eyes danced around the room; Charlie squeezed my chin between thumb and index finger, like a naughty child caught with the crumbs of an illegally obtained cookie stuck to her lips.
"I love you, but you need to grow up." He stood, kissed my forehead in parting, and turned to the loving arms of marital bliss, leaving me with front row seats to the proverbial father-daughter dance. Somewhere above us a plane flew past.
My phone rang two months before; on a Saturday morning vibrations stirred the sleep of my hangover. "Hello?" I cleared my throat and coughed remnants of cigarette smoke into the receiver. "Morning, it's me Charlie. Did I wake you?" His soft voice was clear from the hacking cough of doubt. "Of course you did. How are you my friend?" I rolled onto my side and stared at the discarded clothes of the previous night now littering the carpeted floor – a purple tank top, the black lace of a bra, and dark wash jeans, a five dollar bill still hung from the back pocket. I smiled with the luck. "I'm getting married." I opened my mouth to insert a response, but warm breath and a bad taste formed only a thin attempt. The room rotated on its axis from the news – or the alcohol. "I want… I mean, we want you to come to the wedding." I fumbled in the pockets of my pajamas for likely excuses, but finding only lint, relented. The Alanis Morisette song "Ironic" rode a train through the space between my ears, stopping at the end of the pillowcase, I flicked the engineer from the driver's seat. "It's meeting the man of my dreams, and then meeting his beautiful wife."
I sat clutching a bag with contents to leave a last sigh of regret on the lips of a friend; heels to push my lowly existence above 5'6, a fortress packed with products to spring curls from my mane, and a black dress – a necessary part of a woman's arsenal – to materialize artificial curves. Perhaps, I reflected on the jostling ride, I was losing my soul mate. Wait, was that was the plot from the film "My Best Friend's Wedding"? Was I losing my soul mate, or an 8-year old boy who never tied his shoes and spoke with a lisp?
Their wedding photo arrived two weeks before I was to leave, with a handwritten note expressing her "absolute excitement" over our impending meeting – her spelling and grammar flawless. Damn it. She was beautiful, Arian good looks, with shoulder length blonde hair and blue eyes. I detected the faint hint of plastic surgery underneath her white sweater. The card read "Charlie and Stefanie", with an "f", the advantage of spelling for the younger version who would always receive attention when she politely pointed out the error. I sat upon a stool peering at the photo, desperate for a flaw, and nursed a tall glass of orange juice,
My mother's cooled voice floated through the kitchen, "Who's getting married?" "Charlie." She pried the photo from my iron grip. "Well he did well for himself."
I waited forty-five minutes for their car to arrive, watching LA spill past – the city that doesn't stop, that doesn't need air to breathe – people watching, and wondering where lives went after LAX. The car pulled up to the curb and out he stepped. He wore a tight t-shirt, purposely faded jeans, and wide sunglasses. I was looking at the west coast made shell of a man I no longer could distinguish. She sat behind the wheel, attentive to my needs – bed sheets, bottled water, and lavender bath towels – while swerving through LA traffic at 90 mph. My makeup must have been melting, having been applied 5 hours prior; I fumbled in my purse for remedies. Charlie had last seen me the summer of my 18th birthday, the high school graduate in heat and sweating hormones. I wondered which model was more preferred as his eyes removed of their shield caught my gaze in the side mirror powdering my glossy cheeks.
The next morning as we drove to the church, I had somehow been pinned to the tail coats of the groom's party; I gazed at all of the money stuffed into the California hills. "TNT" by AC/DC (pre-Brian Johnson) came through the speakers and a glimmer of doubt shined in his eyes; he looked at me and our could-be-life played across; the track changed to Ja Rule, and his attention shifted to the knee slapping meathead to my right.
The wedding party was coated in a film of plastic, and with my black dress, fuck off heels, and peacock feather tucked into my hair, I was Wednesday Addams crashing Barbie's pool party. The reception was in a golf cart community protected by tattooed, taser touting security guards. Twenty points if you hit one. Once admitted we drove over a causeway into a private paradise with street names like vacation and campground. Next to my name read "Shark's Cove", and so I sat with the other well dressed bait from San Francisco, where my naivety and mainstream appeal were apparent. I fled during moments of despair to the bathroom stalls where I passed love notes to my journal and laughed over the witty names now assigned to each member of Shark's Cove.
I returned from the bar having pilfered two extra drink tickets and sat lazily in the chair, my womanly grace all but lost in the Chardonnay. I had been instructed by the wedding veterans to maintain an air of class while clothed in a strapless bra and panties-less. I unwillingly shook my head from side to side at the suggestion of Bud Light by the bartender. I folded my hands around the glass and swallowed a meek measure of the liquid.
Charlie sat in the white folding chair next to mine twirling a pink rose. He took the glass from my misted palms and covered my hands with his. I thought of the ten year old edition of Charlie explaining the birds and bees to a very reluctant peer in the same manner. The shine of the gold ring circling his finger blinded my view into his eyes. I thought of the nail biting mother and instinctively withdrew my hand to the locket around my neck, but Charlie, sensing my apprehension, grabbed both wrists in midair. My eyes danced around the room; Charlie squeezed my chin between thumb and index finger, like a naughty child caught with the crumbs of an illegally obtained cookie stuck to her lips.
"I love you, but you need to grow up." He stood, kissed my forehead in parting, and turned to the loving arms of marital bliss, leaving me with front row seats to the proverbial father-daughter dance. Somewhere above us a plane flew past.
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