even when you know he’s full of shit, because chances are he knows he’s full of shit as much as you do, even if he’s not prepared to face it just at that moment.” He paused. “Come out the extra percentage, Donna,” he pleaded. “Trust me. I know I’m full of shit. But I love you. Please don’t postpone our wedding. Go forward, not back.” He took her head between both his hands. “Marry me,” he said.
The photographers arrived at fifteen minutes after four. Donna had been dressed and waiting for more than three quarters of an hour. Despite the air conditioning, she wasbeginning to feel exactly the way Victor had predicted—wilted. She kept checking her image in the mirror, adjusting and readjusting several stray strands of hair that refused to cooperate. Victor kept telling her to leave her hair alone, she was only making it worse, he said, and greasy as well. When she finally got the hairs in place he stared at her and said, “What’d you do that for? I liked it better the other way.” She took guarded, though frequent, glances at her underarms until Victor told her that the more she worried about perspiration, the more likely she was to perspire, and then her glances became more guarded though no less frequent. The tops of her hands began to itch; Victor told her not to scratch. It was just her nerves, he said. She wanted to tell him that the only thing wrong with her nerves was the fact that he was getting on them. She wanted to tell him to shut up and go back to Connecticut. She wanted four, maybe five, good stiff drinks. She wanted to wreak chaos through the flower-filled room which, despite its sunny festivity, was beginning to feel like a funeral parlor with herself the freshly laid-out sweat-stained corpse. She wanted to kick off her shoes, tear off her dress, destroy her veil, burn her bouquet, and run like hell.
How did Victor feel? she wondered. Then the doorbell rang. It was four-fifteen and the photographers appeared, full of apologies, making excuses, setting up equipment, snapping pictures, the bride alone, the bride and groom, a formal sitting, a candid shot, some guests arriving early, the caterers and their crew arriving late, full of the same apologies, the same excuses, setting up equipment, setting the tables, more guests arriving, much mingling, congratulations, the telegram arriving from Donna’s sister once againapologizing for not being able to attend, making excuses (make-up exam and all), wishing her the best of luck, the justice of the peace arriving with his clerk, on time, no excuses, no apologies. Just smiles, hellos, introductions, best wishes. Being moved into appropriate places, sudden bursts of silence as loud as the noise they interrupted, the justice of the peace talking, saying something about the solemnity of the occasion, the joyousness of what they were about to undertake. Undertakers, she thought, watching his lips move, not hearing what he was saying through the buzz in her ears, feeling the perspiration starting to stain her dress, the rash on her hands beginning to itch again, hearing familiar voices saying “I will,” wondering why they hadn’t said “I do,” feeling Victor’s lips brushing gently against her own, hearing the happy squeals all around her and knowing it was all over. Over. What precisely, she wondered, was over? What precisely was beginning?
She looked over at Victor, beaming at her with proud satisfaction. How did Victor feel? she wondered.
“I was just wondering,” she asked him later between mouthfuls of food and the persistent congratulations of their inebriated guests, “about, you know, about how you just packed up and left everything and everybody back in Connecticut …” She’d had those four, maybe five drinks.
“What about it?” he asked without a trace of rancor, having himself imbibed a similar quantity.
“Well, I was just wondering what would happen to me if we didn’t work out. I mean, would you just pack up
The photographers arrived at fifteen minutes after four. Donna had been dressed and waiting for more than three quarters of an hour. Despite the air conditioning, she wasbeginning to feel exactly the way Victor had predicted—wilted. She kept checking her image in the mirror, adjusting and readjusting several stray strands of hair that refused to cooperate. Victor kept telling her to leave her hair alone, she was only making it worse, he said, and greasy as well. When she finally got the hairs in place he stared at her and said, “What’d you do that for? I liked it better the other way.” She took guarded, though frequent, glances at her underarms until Victor told her that the more she worried about perspiration, the more likely she was to perspire, and then her glances became more guarded though no less frequent. The tops of her hands began to itch; Victor told her not to scratch. It was just her nerves, he said. She wanted to tell him that the only thing wrong with her nerves was the fact that he was getting on them. She wanted to tell him to shut up and go back to Connecticut. She wanted four, maybe five, good stiff drinks. She wanted to wreak chaos through the flower-filled room which, despite its sunny festivity, was beginning to feel like a funeral parlor with herself the freshly laid-out sweat-stained corpse. She wanted to kick off her shoes, tear off her dress, destroy her veil, burn her bouquet, and run like hell.
How did Victor feel? she wondered. Then the doorbell rang. It was four-fifteen and the photographers appeared, full of apologies, making excuses, setting up equipment, snapping pictures, the bride alone, the bride and groom, a formal sitting, a candid shot, some guests arriving early, the caterers and their crew arriving late, full of the same apologies, the same excuses, setting up equipment, setting the tables, more guests arriving, much mingling, congratulations, the telegram arriving from Donna’s sister once againapologizing for not being able to attend, making excuses (make-up exam and all), wishing her the best of luck, the justice of the peace arriving with his clerk, on time, no excuses, no apologies. Just smiles, hellos, introductions, best wishes. Being moved into appropriate places, sudden bursts of silence as loud as the noise they interrupted, the justice of the peace talking, saying something about the solemnity of the occasion, the joyousness of what they were about to undertake. Undertakers, she thought, watching his lips move, not hearing what he was saying through the buzz in her ears, feeling the perspiration starting to stain her dress, the rash on her hands beginning to itch again, hearing familiar voices saying “I will,” wondering why they hadn’t said “I do,” feeling Victor’s lips brushing gently against her own, hearing the happy squeals all around her and knowing it was all over. Over. What precisely, she wondered, was over? What precisely was beginning?
She looked over at Victor, beaming at her with proud satisfaction. How did Victor feel? she wondered.
“I was just wondering,” she asked him later between mouthfuls of food and the persistent congratulations of their inebriated guests, “about, you know, about how you just packed up and left everything and everybody back in Connecticut …” She’d had those four, maybe five drinks.
“What about it?” he asked without a trace of rancor, having himself imbibed a similar quantity.
“Well, I was just wondering what would happen to me if we didn’t work out. I mean, would you just pack up
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