I Will Be a Pretty Thing
a short story
In two weeks, their family and friends would be sitting in the pews, the adults waiting patiently like adults, the children fidgeting like children, and the man would be standing in the noiseless chapel thumbing the rings in his pocket.
His mind would be scouring the days, hoping for some kind of answer, until he remembered today—this day now, outside at the café—when he asked if she loved him.
The woman moved her spoon an inch, then her knife, tidying up. “Don’t turn my words. I said it’s old-fashioned. And I still don’t know why it matters?”
The woman’s face looked pale in the sun. It distracted him. “This has always been our plan,” he said. “This is what we want.”
The waiter came across the patio with a fresh bottle of beer for the man and the man lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “People are counting on us.”
“People want what’s best for us,” the woman said. “They will understand.”
The waiter started pouring the beer but the man waved him off. He stared at his family ring on the woman’s finger, upside down, digging into the tablecloth. “It’s too late,” he said.
The highway sound droned through the tables as the man poured the rest of his beer, too fast, sending foam over the rim. The woman watched the foam wet the table and that the man hadn’t noticed.
“I know it’s too late,” the woman said. She picked her iced tea up and held it at her lips. “It’s too late for anything.”
A breeze blew and the man imagined goosebumps on her. He went to the car for a jacket. In all this sun it had never occurred to him to that she might get cold.
“Fiction is the lie that tells the truth.” Neil Gaiman said that. Sometimes I write short stories (instead of essays). It’s nice to forget the facts once in a while, you know? I’ll throw these out every other week, mix it up.
If you liked this one, try another . . .
So she didn't show up?
Cleverly, beautifully, believably done