Saturday's Storyteller: "She stared wistfully out the window, wondering if tonight's events could ever be repeated."

by Belinda Roddie

She stared wistfully out the window, wondering if tonight's events could ever be repeated. But as her fingers obsessively traced and retraced the damp, criss-crossed ebony pane, she was certain that it wasn't going to happen the way she wanted ever again.

It wasn't just the way her darling had dressed, in that wonderful red top and black sweater vest, cuffs bedecked with fragments of cold, the long hair splaying out to the sides in delightful waves. It wasn't just the way her hand had been held, her chin lifted by two firm fingers, her lips caressed by warm, moist smiles. They had walked together quietly, the mellow lights of suburbia guiding them to small Italian restaurants and cafés.

The champagne, bubbly and happy, had not helped. Nor had the frenzy of colors along the waters of the park as they whirled around in darkening, deepening grass. And most of all, the ring.

She rubbed her ring finger where it now rested - silver and blue and glass all in a simple, daring band. Her darling had told her that this was just a temporary ring - that a new, better ring would come soon, once it could be afforded. But she had said yes. Yes, yes, yes. Always yes.

When she turned back to look at the bed, her darling was sleeping there, clothes still on but rumpled, the collar unbuttoned. The flutes used for the leftover effervescence were dry and clumped together on the tiny nightstand, and the candles had long been snuffed out. To the side, their framed picture hung on a single hook on the crackling wall. The wall that complained when the wind got too rough.

Was it too much to ask to want a repeat? To not worry about the looks she would get when she showed her bedecked hand to her loved ones, knowing that some of them would cluck their tongues? Refuse invitations to the house? To the parties? To the wedding?

In her hometown, they quarreled about it all the time. Whether it was right. Whether it wasn't. Despite all the times her darling had told her not to worry, she couldn't cease the rumblings in her temples. Her darling was, unlike her, someone with courage. She, on the other hand, would occasionally tremble at even the thought of talking to someone new. The fear of judgment seemed silly, but when it culminated into verbal action, she worried it would become physical. Or worse.

It was silly since no one had laid a finger on her - her darling would not allow it. Her darling was her knight. But sometimes she forgot.

Suddenly remembering something, she went to the lone desk and lifted up a bright blue notebook. Her darling had told her to read it whenever she felt down, as there were little notes here and there for her to read. There was always something new each day - a reminder, a drawing, a scrap of encouragement. She had never bothered to look beyond the next few blank pages, and in truth, she shouldn't have.

But tonight was different. It was obviously very different.

Flipping through the sheets of lined silence, she stopped when she saw the faded imprint of a pen close to her fingers. She didn't know if she should read it. Was this perhaps something private? Her darling had never been someone to write secret journal entries. She couldn't help it. She turned the page. She read the compact print, deliberately small, painstakingly drawn out so that her darling's typical rough penmanship wasn't a problem this time around. And she couldn't stop reading:

By the time you read this letter, I will most likely be waiting at the altar, wearing my tuxedo and my polished shoes and my little boutonniere, a white rose just like the one I gave you on our first date. And yes, I will be wearing a red vest, not a blue one, since you like red more. But if you are reading this by then, that’s good. I wouldn’t want you to read it any other time, for that would prove to be a bit overwhelming.

You know as much as I do how much I love you, and how much I want to marry you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, to be your groom, and your partner or husband or wife or whatever you want to call me, to be a parent to your child. I want to be your teacher and your student, your poet and your realist. Anything you ask for, I will readily give in a heartbeat, no matter how people look at me, or how they judge, because it won’t matter to me. I couldn’t care less about that.

That’s why I want to also say that if you feel like you cannot find it in your heart to truly follow through with this wedding, then for the love of God, do not walk down that aisle. There is nothing worse than a weak vow, or a hesitant yes, for it can only lead to heartbreak. My love is so strong for you that I would even see you walk away from me, because if that's what makes you happy, then I will try to make it so I am happy as well. I know, sounds like I’m exaggerating, but I’m being honest. I could not see you unhappy if you were with me and didn’t really think it was how it should be.


We have known each other for more than two years now, a pretty brief time for us to marry judging other couples’ experiences. But I proposed to you because you have allowed me to see past the drama. You have allowed me to see past the construct, like the world is a story I must write. You are the poet, and I am the words. You have created me, and I feel like no matter how long we may have stayed together before I brought out the ring, I think I would never have changed my mind in the long run.


What I want you to remember most of all, dear, is that regardless of race, ethnic identity, economic standing, or Hell, even sexual orientation – this will not be easy. Love is not easy. We will have our low points, but they will be countered by the happiest of days. We will argue, we will question, and we will wonder, but we will love. Love is difficult, but prosperous. Love is angry, but kind. A love that can last through trial is a love worth keeping, and I have faith that our love can outlast any storm.


But enough tired clichés from me; it’s obviously not becoming of my writing niche, is it? Anyway, I stand by what I have said earlier, that I want you only to walk down that aisle if it is truly what you want. And no matter what you choose, no matter what you decide, whether to link arms with your father as he leads you to me on the other side or to turn around and walk away with the veil flowing behind you…no matter what, I will be waiting at the end of the aisle. I will always be waiting at the end of the aisle.


I love you with all my heart and all my mind and all my soul, and I hope to say “I do” to you once the ceremony starts.

She nearly sobbed. Why had she read this? It was too soon to read it. Her darling had written this for much later, for the wedding - for a note passed over before the ceremony started. Why could she have not read it later? As she stifled her breaths, she could hear rustling from the mattress, and she couldn't help a strange squeak as she saw her darling rise sluggishly from the bed, drawn away from sleep.

"I knew it."

A short, wispy laugh. Then a toss of the head to get shreds of long bangs out of sleepy eyes. She saw her darling stretch.

"I figured you wouldn't be able to wait to read it. That's fine...you needed to see it anyway."

She couldn't help it. She practically staggered to the bed, crawling into her darling's arms and nestling her head against a calm heart. She breathed in the smells. She could still pick up champagne and rich Italian cuisine.

"This is the five percent of the time things will be amazing," she whispered, "isn't it?"

Her darling grinned that token grin. The one she loved.

"Yeah." Then a shrug. "And the other 95% will be just as much of an adventure."

This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.