Marriage or Death

Marriage or death —
that’s how all great novels end.
Life doesn’t offer you that false choice,
just as it didn’t give Jane Austen —
maybe the only woman who truly deserved that —
her own Mr. Darcy.

I lived in a tiny room behind a wedding dress shop,
one of those shady, always-empty parlors,
on a street of runaway brides.
The wealthy old ladies next door
thought I was peddling dresses,
or maybe mopping the floors.
They felt sorry for me, said I’d find my Prince Charming —
though I wasn’t looking for anyone.
The girl who rented me that tiny flat
was packing her stuff to move in with a boyfriend.
“Don’t leave anyone here overnight,” she told me.
“They must know you need to be rescued.”
Maybe she was trying to pass on
some sisterly wisdom,
the kind women hand down
like an heirloom, across generations.

The only time I wore a white dress,
I was playing pretend —
a heroine in a student film.
I thought it would be awkward,
spending my wedding night with a cameraman.
It wasn’t —
at least not as awkward
as ending up in bed with someone without a script.
Not that I’d know.

I had my cinematic wedding in a café
named after its owner.
“I’ll need to check with my husband,” she said,
when I asked if we could film there.
They had a nice interior,
great coffee,
and it was easy to set up the lighting,
throw a prop bouquet,
kiss a fictitious groom.
She had a name that didn’t quite fit,
perhaps she made it up,
dreaming of a different, more vibrant life.

There was a snowstorm the day she was buried.
Her husband had done ten years —
he’s probably out by now.

I don’t want to tell how he killed her.

Nobody who knew her went to those trashy shows —
turned out, she had good taste in friends.
Many blamed her —
a pretty, slightly sad woman
with a fairy tale name
for marrying Bluebeard,
for simply wanting to be happy —
the only way she knew how.
The only way any girl knows,
who just wants to be loved.