Your Marriage, by Hailey Bartlett

The year is 1994, and we are together. We sit on the steps of a church in the city, myself smoking a cigarette, and you, looking over as though you want one, but remembering the promise you made to your mother. We sit in complete silence as I puff away. I think to myself, Did I really just get married? And I can only imagine your reply. Yes. Short and simple. You’re normally so long winded, but not in this instance. I can’t imagine you saying anything else. What else is there to say? Yes, “my love.” Yes, “my dear.” Maybe, but it doesn’t sound right coming from you. Nothing really sounds right after a wedding. There’s just this sinking feeling that you made the wrong decision. That maybe the “if we’re not married by 30 we’ll marry each other” pact wasn’t such a good idea after all. Eventually we’ll go to a hotel, and we’ll try to have sex for the first time. It won’t feel natural, but we’ll finish, or maybe we’ll just give up an hour in. The divorce will approach faster than the honeymoon, and we know this. We just accept it. We’re never going to make it, but for now, I will smoke my cigarette and you will watch. You will watch, and you will yearn to feel like I do.