the bride

She knew at the altar, and even months before, that she was marrying the wrong man, or at least one she didn’t love. It had bothered her, at first, but she became used to the idea, or at least had made peace with it. Two things: one, she was almost 27, and all of her girlfriends were married, some for a few years, already. Two: her mother had told her that she’d done the same thing – married her father out of resort, rather than love. She knew, too, that she had him convinced that she loved him. It was better that way. After all, he was the one who believed in love.

For years, later, they would tease each other about how he loved her more than she loved him. She would see the smile on his face, but the pain in his eyes, too. That tiny little show of desperation, just that hint, always steeled her against ever giving in and loving him, really loving him. It was her wield, her power, all that she had, and she needed it. Years later, still, when it was all over and they’d divorced and went their ways without ever talking, even once, again, she held on to that as her victory, not only what she’d won, but how she’d won it. She hadn’t given in. She’d been tempted, now and again, but she hadn’t given in, given up, allowed him that.

But that would be later, years and years, later. Now, as she stood at the altar, gazing across at him as a bride would, she gave no indication of what she was doing and why, though she did feel a slight twinge of sadness. For him, surprisingly. For she knew that he knew not what and into what he was getting.

The thought passed as quickly as it had arrived.

Outside, it was snowing and minus 16.