He wasn't there.
I walked down the aisle, into the church, and he wasn't there. The groom's side was completely empty.
He never told me he had doubts about us. He never told me about the talks he had with his mother about me. That monstrous woman refuses to believe that I've changed. I thought he'd forgiven me. I stopped the drugs, the drinking, the cheating, and the baby was his.
The red I saw was not of the roses covering the aisles, nor of the velvet on the seats. I went from being blinded by love, to hatred and anger.
All I could think of was the cake. The cake. It was a beautiful creation. It had three tiers and butter cream frosting. I cut only the first piece, deciding to save it for a year and maybe enjoy a piece of the dream I'd lost then.
I wanted him to have the rest. I brought it to 3672 Ridgefield Drive and dumped it. He can eat it along with a of fresh squeezed milk from his mother's breasts.
i like how much of a story is conveyed in this brief bit of fiction. the direct and concise tone of the narrator is an interesting choice for someone who has just gone through something as traumatic as being left at the altar; however, it works well in the length of the piece and even allows a bit of humor in what would otherwise be quite a sad story. i also liked that you ended with the given image rather than began with it.
ReplyDelete