And there goes another one.
Down that long aisle. This time, it’s as red as her painted lips.
I watch her from my place, next to her soon-to-be husband. She’s beautiful in her off-white gown, her veil covering just her eyes. But that blue doesn’t stay hidden. It never did.
She is so focused on not tripping, a small wrinkle forms on her brow. I want to let out my amusement, but this isn’t the time or the place. I can’t help but feel as if this is the last time I’ll really get to see her so open.
I’ve known her most of my life, grew up with her back in our old neighborhood in Venice Beach, and back then, I’d never have believed anyone who said it wouldn’t be me waiting for her at the end of this aisle.
Man, was I wrong.
I was always the best friend. The safety net. Never the romantic interest. But isn’t that how it always is? The movies depict this moment as a turning point. Where the bride runs off with another man. But I know that won’t happen. She’s too devoted to the man on my right.
I just hope he knows how lucky he is to have this incredible woman in his life.
It’s painful for me to watch as she steps up to him, to hold his hand and look into his eyes as if he’s the only man in the room. It’s how I looked at her for the past fifteen years. And not once was that specific look ever pointed in my direction.
I know when it’s time to give up. To bow out gracefully. But that’s never been my style.
You can bet your ass I’ll be objecting to this union.
Here’s my entry for the Flash Fiction challenge.