Doot De Doo

She lay her head against his chest, snoring softly. His arm was asleep, but he bore the pain in stoic stillness, listening to the music of her breathing, overcome by the scent of her. He'd read recently that we humans chose mates based largely on their specific and unique scent, and as for him, he wuz a believer.

The ceremony had been brief yet basically perfect. His mom cried. His dad beamed, always disconcerting when emitted by such a low-shine countenance. Many many pictures were taken by the sister and the sister in law. She wore a long flowing black skirt, a black corset, black stockings, black mid-heel shoes, a purple ribbon, and his mother's earrings. He wore a look of stunned disbelief and a few days worth of beard. The justice of the piece read a few remarks from his well worn script: just the right words, some traditional and some all his own. He surprised the bejesus out of her when he pulled the ring out of his front pocket: his sister's, resized, a bitter artifact of divorce repurposed as a promise for the future. She whispered in his ear: "Ditto."

Life still intruded around the fringes. Her car had to have its exhaust pipe welded back on, that same day. The mechanics rolled down The Window That Must Not Be Opened, incurring further electrical repair expense. His friends came over and hung out for a few hours, eating up their packing time (but hey, what grown man or woman doesn't want to kick some ass at Sorry!). The dinner that night must have set Dad back a fortune, with all the prime rib and fish being flung about. But it mattered little. All three of his siblings and he, all in the same space, laughing and trading stories and enjoying each other for just this one precious hour. She called her mother, sad at her absence and happy at the love in her distant voice. A stop was made at the "party store:" giant bottle of DiSaronno, she determined to get him nearly drunk for once in his life. Tomorrow they would set out on an amble up the coast of Lake Michigan, stopping at little towns or parks or beaches or the opening of an envelope, any excuse to lean up against each other and be reminded of their Personal Space Invader.

He stroked her hair, now, her dyed-red, overcurled, drastically shorter hair. She stirred a little, nestled herself a little more securely within the folds of his ampleness, where she seemed to like to be. So, yeah, this was love. E-mail-order bride. Five years or seven months or three months, depending on your yardstick, and he was married.

Life is never perfect, but it can be better or it can be worse. All in all, a high score on the better end.