Should of stayed in bed. Nestled in the down. Light sleep dreaming of far away and foreign lands. You wonder briefly if anyone else dreams in languages they do not understand. In the dream, you were able to communicate with the Taxi driver who took you to the amazing hotel with the room overlooking rooftops, with a balcony, and the basket of fruit. Blaring sirens.
The alarm is instant. Dislodging your cat, you get up, put on lounge ware including toasty slippers, and wander in search of coffee. Your three best friends and your mother are in your kitchen. The counter piled with make-up bags, and primping tools. You want to go back to the dream, the beautiful twilight streets you saw through the rain-streaked taxi windows. Sheila hands you a mug of cinnamon coffee.
They had all been chattering softly when you wandered in. They stopped focusing all attention on you. They arrange you at the breakfast bar with pan au chocolate to go with your coffee. Marcy stands behind you, running her fingers through your hair. Your mother looks on with tear glistened eyes.
Deirdre straightens out the bedding, your cat curls up on your pillow. The dress hangs from the top of the doorway, the train pooling on the floor. You are powdered, rouged, curled, pinned, perfumed, your mother’s sapphire hair comb old, borrowed, blue. You wear silk slip and enticing underthings. You are dreading the shoes.
Should of stayed in bed, following the dream down the streets scented with spices and unfamiliar flora. Laughing at your good fortune of finding a café to seek shelter from the rain. Is your life as a single woman enough? Your days are your days, your nights are your own, you can stretch out as much as you like. You do not need to run ideas past anyone, think about someone else when considering meals, worry about clutter.
If you walk down that aisle, if you take the hand of the man waiting there at the end of the line. You will speak your vows, pledge your troth. You will become half of a whole. You will be awakening in his bed tomorrow, your (the plural your) bed. There will be no singular you. Not anymore, and less so if there are babies. You still want babies right?
You take a breath, the dress just tight enough to keep you from truly breathing deeply. You think about love, how you feel when you’re with him. How the future looks when you talk about it over morning coffee. You think about packing up your life and squidging it into his life and the dress feels tighter.
Should have stayed in bed. Called the whole thing off. Sure you’d be broken hearted for a while, but that would pass. You are self-sufficient. Or you were, before you let him start doing things for you. He’s given no indication things will change. You will even keep your name.
You are standing at the edge of the garden, there is the entrance music. Deirdre’s daughter is flinging petals everywhere. You are walking toward then standing next to him. He speaks his vows to you. Do you take this man?
— Lkai
The alarm is instant. Dislodging your cat, you get up, put on lounge ware including toasty slippers, and wander in search of coffee. Your three best friends and your mother are in your kitchen. The counter piled with make-up bags, and primping tools. You want to go back to the dream, the beautiful twilight streets you saw through the rain-streaked taxi windows. Sheila hands you a mug of cinnamon coffee.
They had all been chattering softly when you wandered in. They stopped focusing all attention on you. They arrange you at the breakfast bar with pan au chocolate to go with your coffee. Marcy stands behind you, running her fingers through your hair. Your mother looks on with tear glistened eyes.
Deirdre straightens out the bedding, your cat curls up on your pillow. The dress hangs from the top of the doorway, the train pooling on the floor. You are powdered, rouged, curled, pinned, perfumed, your mother’s sapphire hair comb old, borrowed, blue. You wear silk slip and enticing underthings. You are dreading the shoes.
Should of stayed in bed, following the dream down the streets scented with spices and unfamiliar flora. Laughing at your good fortune of finding a café to seek shelter from the rain. Is your life as a single woman enough? Your days are your days, your nights are your own, you can stretch out as much as you like. You do not need to run ideas past anyone, think about someone else when considering meals, worry about clutter.
If you walk down that aisle, if you take the hand of the man waiting there at the end of the line. You will speak your vows, pledge your troth. You will become half of a whole. You will be awakening in his bed tomorrow, your (the plural your) bed. There will be no singular you. Not anymore, and less so if there are babies. You still want babies right?
You take a breath, the dress just tight enough to keep you from truly breathing deeply. You think about love, how you feel when you’re with him. How the future looks when you talk about it over morning coffee. You think about packing up your life and squidging it into his life and the dress feels tighter.
Should have stayed in bed. Called the whole thing off. Sure you’d be broken hearted for a while, but that would pass. You are self-sufficient. Or you were, before you let him start doing things for you. He’s given no indication things will change. You will even keep your name.
You are standing at the edge of the garden, there is the entrance music. Deirdre’s daughter is flinging petals everywhere. You are walking toward then standing next to him. He speaks his vows to you. Do you take this man?
— Lkai
What upcoming bride doesn't/shouldn't feel this way? Good writing. opelikakat
ReplyDeleteGosh golly! I had feelings of foreboding around the middle of this piece, as if the narrator ("you") had died and was a ghost. Must have been her mother's tears. I'm guessing she's not a virgin, because sex isn't mentioned; other MORE IMPORTANT things are! (Oh, by the way, you get a special prize for using the word "squidging.") ---Macoff
ReplyDeleteThis is so good, Lkai! It reminds me of a painting called "The Bride Cocoon". There is the great sense of the endless time of the short moment before something very big is about to happen. Wonderful.
ReplyDelete