8. Weddingparty

 We got married on a windy day. In the Rosegarden. A small wedding. But I looked beautiful. I had my hair in a low bun, strands were blond, bleached by sun and sea. I had a tan. My dress was red, with lots of Brussels lace. My décolleté was low cut and made me look voluptuous. A fucking auburn Betty Draper. Daddy had paid for everything. It was his day. He was so proud.

I looked up at my tall groom. He smiled and showed his dazzling white teeth. God, he was handsome. Successful, charming and handsome. My childhood friend. My husband. Only. Not him.

He was standing in the shadow of a large chestnut tree. I had not seen him but my niece said there was some beautiful hippie punk watching my every move. Looking hungry, she said. Sad.

When I saw were she pointed I almost dropped to my knees. It was him. In the strangest outfit, well, for a wedding, not for him. Some grandpa trousers, dessert boots, weird colourful shirt and an old tweed jacket straight from James Herriot. But his face, his elf-like face, framed by that beautiful curly hair, looked sad. Devastated.

I wanted to go to him. But my fresh husband withheld me. "Not now," he said. "This is not the time." He gestured at his brothers then at the elf. They went to my heart's voice and politely asked him to leave the party. Since this was a private party.

Supported between the two brothers he walked a way.  Stumbling as if drunk, maybe he was. Turned his head. A silent cry.

With a sob I pulled free from my husband and ran to the bathroom. Looked in the mirror. A ghost, white with huge black irises. Madness in my eyes.

My niece knocked on the door. " You alright?"

I gulped some water, straightened my shoulders, said to myself; "Yes, I'm hurting but on goes the mascara and lipgloss. That's right, I'll be the prettiest fucking wreck you've ever seen." And returned to the party. My party. But I didn't cry.