Initial Here

She sat at the edge of the bed in the only sort of position the wedding dress would allow. The afternoon sun parsed itself out in  thin layers across the carpet, even, perfect cuts. The room smelled like sweet things over sweat and lacked a haze of cigarette smoke.
She could not see herself in the mirror, so kept very still to keep it that way. The veil was down so people would stop trying to look at her.
Her sister and mother were now silent and holding hands. She thought only Parisian couples who survived the Blitzkrieg and existed expressly in black and white should be allowed to hold hands. She pulled her clawed index and middle from the meat of the opposite thumb.
Her spine was a rod from which the rest of her body hung and she wished someone would place her back on the shelf.
She began to do the tally again in her head. The same tally she had started as soon as there was need for one. When the bank teller was taking an especially long time, she added how many wanted steak opposed to chicken. Redlights meant wondering if the jazz band was the right choice. Being put on hold meant being startled, in just a few seconds, from trying to remember what people threw instead of birdseed now. Cleaning the lint trap was the best time to remember the vegetarians.
How she had been plucked? Escorted. Lifted. Lifted and...alofted towards this. Towards sitting on the edge of the bed. Smiles and hugs and "I was saving this"es. Had there been a series of boxes that she systematically checked in affirmation of all of this? She would like to review that document. But she knew it would all be there, all initialed. Yes. Yes. Yes.
There was a sound that should have gone unheard in the hustle and bustle, but was alarmingly crisp and loud. She tilted her head toward the door, precisely, to the missive that had been slid under the door. A missive conveyed in one of the Thank-You cards and envelopes that had been designed and bought for just this occasion. Yes. 
Her sister was the one that finally went for it. Inscrutable expression, or that's what she was going for. Her beautifully gloved hand reached for the delicate paper and she read it, sitting on the edge of the bed.











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