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The Wedding |
by Lacey Briley
The space was too big for a wedding. My focus was off. It wasn't even a chapel, really, it was a multipurpose room attached to a church. I knew I should be riveted to the bride and groom, engaged in their moment, basking in the reflected glow of their love, feeling all the joyous emotions weddings are staged to evoke. Instead, I was staring at the drop-down media screen above the altar. I could not stop looking at it. All of the room seemed aimed towards that screen, heading towards it, careening towards it as a train in a tunnel. The men carefully controlling the lighting and sound in the back of the church had made sure the screen was ready for the slide show of the happy couple at the beginning of the ceremony, but that moment had long since passed, and yet the screen persisted. My gaze was as fixed on it as if it were a lightening-blue bug zapper, and I, a june bug, inexorably drawn into the light.
A sniff from the highly allergic nose next to me, and the daze I had fallen into, was interrupted. He took my hand with his own and looked at me purposefully, reminding me to pay attention; to be properly moved. I turned away, mostly so I might stop looking at his shirt; the shirt I was sure everyone else was looking at. Heather gray and sweater weight, so wrong for the day. Why couldn't he just wear what all the other guys were wearing? A collared shirt and a tie? But he thought he looked great, even told me how excellent his wardrobe choice was. Right, I thought, great. As soon as I thought it, I knew it was mean, but I really didn't care.
Now the bride and groom were beginning their vows, committing to be together until death. The bride was crying big, gulping sobs. Not elegant tears. The backs of my legs began to tingle. My hand in his grew hot, damp and uncomfortable, and I wanted to take it away, but taking it away could only draw undo attention to my taking it away; so, there it sat, noncommittal. I uncrossed my legs, the top one stiff and half-asleep, and recrossed them the other direction. In my peripheral vision, I could see him looking at me, gauging my response to the bliss before us. But I didn't want to look at him, so I stared ahead, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge him.
Finally, he leaned in, closely, familiarly, and whispered, "Are you crying?"
"No. Yes." I still couldn't look at him.
"Haha, I knew you'd cry. You love this stuff."
"Hmm. Yeah."
A few moments later, the ceremony ended, the bride and groom floated out of the church, and the rest of us filed out slowly, in an orderly fashion. I was, technically, a member of the wedding party as the guestbook attendant, so I had to meet everyone at a nearby park for pictures. As a result, I had to buy a black dress to match with the rest of the group. I rarely wear heels, they make me taller than most people, but I had to with my black dress. I remembered when we stood again how my extra three inches could make me feel exposed, like you feel when you're a teenager, like everyone around you knows something you don't. I slouched.
I looked over at my boyfriend as we were walking out of the chapel. With my heels on, I was at least two inches taller than him. He acted like he didn't mind, but I knew he did. He asked, "So when do they let you change out of those heels?"
He was asking charitably, ostensibly worried for my comfort. I knew what he really meant was, "When are you going to take those off so I don't look stupid with you?" I replied, "Oh, whenever I want, but I think I'm going to leave them on. Don't you think they're cute?"
I stood up straight for once. He reached for my hand again, but I pretended not to notice. We escaped into the startling sunlight and bright summer air. The spell of constraint and inevitability broke. I took a deep breath, unhindered by the walls of the room, away from the eternally binding ceremony, free and tall.
Lacey Briley has an MA in English Literature from Chapman University. She thinks that sounds pretty fancy. She lives in Orange County, CA where she enjoys baking, doodling, watching Friday Night Lights and referring to herself in the third person.
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