I’m going to arrange my bouquet myself. Red roses and white lilies. Blood red and candle white. For life, until death do us part.
I’m going to choose a dress that flows and ingratiates without restraining me, and won’t show up stains.
I’m going to count the days until the wedding with nervous anticipation, passing the time by studying my graph. X,Y. Two axes. X,Y. The axes extend hands X across and Y up and meet, here – marriage. The first coordinates, already plotted, pinpointing our vows to X, match coordinates and Y, forever slice the graph together on the line of best fit. Until death do us part.
On the morning of the wedding I’m going to feel excited by destiny coming to rest over my future, but when I am dressed and look in the mirror, I’m going to release a small tear to find its own way down the worn groove on my face.
Carrying my bouquet, I’m going to glide gracefully down the aisle between the rows of guests. They’re going to gasp, and someone is going to say, 'His ex! Why…?'
As I arrive at the altar by my husband’s side, he’s going to look shocked and confused. Ex-wife?
And then he’s going to gasp, too, as he sees something glinting in my red and white bouquet.
And then I’m going to use the blade of my knife to plot our rightful position on my graph.
About the Author
Jacki Donnellan loves making music and making up stories. She lives in the Netherlands and works at sailing her family safely across the seas of expatriate life. Follow her on Twitter: @DonnellanJacki