I shook the bird seed from my hair into the bath tub, the seeds falling to the white tub, sticking to my hairspray lacquered curls as my fingers yanked on the knots of goo and seed. The only way I could get this all out of my hair is with a shower and a couple fistfuls of conditioner. The thought of a warm shower was appealing—my toes were rubbed from my heels, my thick thighs bore deep indents from my white tights, and my body was chilled from my light, springy getaway dress. June bride though I might be, my layers and layers of slip and white dress had not been hot, but rather kept me suitably warm through the drizzly, foggy afternoon reception. I wasn't stoked to change into the knot-front, flare-skirted cobalt dress, and I had gotten a bit chilled after the toasting and running down the isle made by bird-seed-wielding, intoxicated elderly ladies who hadn't had the pleasure of showering a couple with rice in many years. I suspected my groom's grandmother had let fly the fistful that slipped down my cleavage and was held against my belly by my corset—which we discovered in the hotel room, a reveal much less romantic and much more humorous.
Reminiscing aside, my groom cranked on the hot water when my phone got a text in the next room—I had turned it on again, expecting a “Hey, I'm home and alive” text from one of my college girls. I slipped out of the bathroom and into the little, dark place with a sink before me and a closet behind me. I did get her anticipated “all's well” text, as well as one from my maid of honor.
I read the message and snorted in...in what? Indignation? Anger? Surprise? Fear? Oh, why did you have to forward text this to me, girl? I wondered. I could have gone the rest of my life not knowing he sent you this. Could this be an admission of him having finally given up on me, after years of carefully avoiding him? What was this and why did he bother to text me? Would I bother if the roles were reversed and he was getting married? Most certainly not, I decided.
I read it again.
Ben texted me to tell you best wishes on your wedding and a happy marriage.
From anyone else, that would be sweet and I would replay “thanks!”. If it was from anyone else, I would send them back one of many handwritten thank-you cards.
But no, I stood there hunched over my phone, squinting at the type, wondering what else that little jerkwad of an ex meant. I stood there, wondering about him on my wedding night, while my tights were tossed somewhere behind me, my shoes greedily kicked off into whatever corner they landed in, a pile of bobby pins and small silk flowers lay on the nightstand, my corset was carefully folded on a dresser, and my groom was filling the shower with muggy, warm clouds. I stood there in the cold room, naked but for cakey mascara and glumped, seed-filled hair, staring at the phone with the message.
In order to know what he really meant by texting me on my wedding night—hence taking my attention from my husband—I would need to understand better what my ex had gone through the last five years. Did he hate me for dumping him in favor of my now-groom? Back then, I'd been dating him—Ben—for years and he'd been on the verge of proposing, but I cut him away from me once I realized I was in love with another after only a few weeks. I knew I already loved this new man more than I could ever love him, and I didn't care if this new man shared my affections—once I'd tasted what it was to be treated as I ought to be, I could never again be contended with him. I knew if I didn't get away from him, I'd become embittered, constantly picking fights, trapped in a loveless relationship to keep him from suicide. Did he appreciate my brutal life lesson in love now that he's had five more years to grow up, or was he the same manipulator he was back then?
I sighed, choosing what I would do with this unwelcomed intrusion, his attempt to worm himself back into my life in some way. My toes were chilled, and I heard the rustle of my love pulling back the curtain to slip in the shower—I needed to get in there quick before my groom hogged the hot water.
I deleted his message, sent a quick “glad you're home safe” text to my college girl friend, then pressed the shut-down button on my phone, and not even waiting to watch it die, yanked open the shower door and dove into the hot mists of my new marriage.
It's a good length, too, because it stops before her thinking processes start to get a little repetitive or boring. Good work! A few little things I picked up on, though:
Gender:
Points: 1900
Reviews: 12