It seemed so far – almost an ocean away.

            She looked down that long aisle with its flowers and half-melted candles, with the wine-colored draperies that matched the dresses of a handful of girls who stood on the platform, eyes fixated on her.  The expressions on their makeup-dampened faces ranged from worry to pity to embarrassment.  When she got the courage to take her eyes off the altar and glance in the guests’ directions, she saw the same looks behind their tuxedos and Sunday-best flowered dresses.  Disregarding the threat of staining her brand-new white dress, she sat heavily on the floor and buried her face in her gloved hands.  Her shoulders shook, the lace pattern of her veil drifting back and forth like sea foam caught on the tide.  No one moved to comfort her, but the priest, sensing her turmoil, coughed to cover up the dry sob that sent rivulets of tears down onto her collar. 

            Moments later the best man stepped into the church, nervously twisting his bowtie between his hands and rumpling the sleeves of the perfectly-pressed tuxedo he had rented for the occasion.  She was still on the floor.  Her dress spread around her, a white crumpled ocean of fabric and pearls and lace.  Rays of sunlight, as if adding insult to injury, flooded through the stained-glass dome in the ceiling, giving her a macabre, patchwork appearance.  The bouquet of wine-red roses lay forgotten by her side, turned a deep orange by the stained-glass.  Still no one moved to comfort her.

            The best man knelt beside her to attempt a whispered explanation. 

It was the night before, at the bachelor party, he murmured.  Alcohol and testosterone ran rampant in the grease-stained garage of a high school friend, with a porno on loop on the fuzzy television set and the promise of a ‘big surprise’ to come.  It came in the form of a stripper, nicknamed Bunny, who gave the groom-to-be more than his share of attention.  They’d pooled their money and arranged for her to come just as the party was gaining momentum.  Once she arrived, they’d realized at once why she was exalted as one of the best to be had.  She was tall, he sighed sadly, and very busty, with black roots and dyed blond hair, along with a porcelain complexion and a body that would put a supermodel to shame.  It only took an hour of her ministrations for the groom to forget the purpose of the party, and they found him several hours later.  In bed with her.

            They had been unable to find him since then, nor could they locate Bunny’s whereabouts.  The tuxedo and the plane tickets for the honeymoon were gone.  Along with the ring.  He had, they assumed, taken off with her in his beat up ford pickup and headed to the airport at dawn. 

            Her gloved fingers clenched around the hem of her dress in shock.  She could not, would not, believe what the man beside her was saying.  But it had been almost an hour since the wedding was scheduled to begin, and there was still no sign of him.  The guests began to move, then, and decide there were other places they needed to be.  They swept past her in waves, careful not to tread on the shining whiteness of her dress, but otherwise distant.  Silent. 

            Soon she was alone.  Even the best man and the priest had gone.  Her hair had come undone from the tight coils that had taken hours to mold and shape into perfection.  She should stand, she knew, and leave before the janitor came to sweep away the rose petals that littered the red-carpeted aisle in which she sat.  Next he would take a tiny spatula-shaped tool and scrape away the melted-and-dried ivory pools of candle wax on the wooden pews.  That would take a little longer.

            What did she have now?  Her life had been based upon the assumption that he would always be there for her – that they would marry, grow old together, and retire somewhere by the sea.  College had been put on hold for a year now, her scholarship money passed on to the next qualified applicant, so she could work part-time.  That way they would have the money to buy a modest home in a decent neighborhood and start a life together. 

            No, she wouldn’t think of that now.  She couldn’t. 

            With a heavy sigh, she pulled herself into a standing position, her dress glimmering like raindrops in the sunlight.  The altar, the pews, the scattered pools of rose petals, all seemed an eternity away in her mind.

            She moved in the opposite direction, towards the dark, oak doors that stood between her and the rain-soaked sidewalk.

            The doors flung open and she emerged, a ghost in the misty grayness.  She ran for what felt like hours, until she stood at the front of her all-too-familiar apartment.  It took only a few moments for her to change into jeans and a jacket and fill a backpack with necessities, then she was outside again and running.

            She stood in line, hood shielding her face, and waited for the bus doors to open. The rain fell quite heavily now; she could hear it spattering against the bus stop’s tin roof. And yet as her breath came and fell like the tide, she felt the emptiness ebb. 

            It was over.

            But she was still there.

            She looked up and saw the driver looking expectantly down at her.  It only took a moment for her to hand him her ticket and locate a seat.  As she sat, waiting for the bus to thrum to life, she looked at the water beading down the half-fogged window beside her in rivulets.

            The first fifty miles were punctuated by her quiet sobbing.

(Story is (c) Larissa Copeland, dated 2.16.2007)