We were wed in a world without smartphones and cameras, no pictures of the paper lanterns our guests tossed into the hot night sky the moment we first kissed as man and wife. No witness to our union but imperfect human eyes. I made my dress by tying knots in the sheets I stole from our neighbors’ clotheslines. You borrowed a wool necktie from your father. A pack of fat, happy dogs barrelled out of the woods and ate most of our layer cake. Layers on layers on layers, sweet jelly stuck in their fur. At the reception, Nirvana played an unplugged set, which was all they ever played, since amplifiers and shotguns and radios had never existed. Nobody was famous. Everybody fell in love.
Which is to say, of course, that we were never wed. Paper lanterns are a fire hazard, and Kurt Cobain shot himself in the head. You aren’t that into kissing. But you made the sacrifice for our proposal video, which went viral–more than a million views. Aside from the ugly whip-stitches we pulled in Girl Scouts, I never learned to sew, and the money I put aside from walking people’s needy, neglected dogs won’t buy me any dress, not if I want to eat. Your father hasn’t spoken to you in years. I haven’t spoken to you since you admitted to watching TMZ, then tried to pass it off as a guilty pleasure. You should feel guilty. Nobody asks to be famous. All I ask for is a love as sweet as the songs on the radio.
Originally from Chicago, Becky Robison is a graduate of University of Nevada Las Vegas’ Creative Writing MFA program. When she’s not traveling the world and freelancing, she’s working on her novel and serving as Marketing and Social Media Coordinator for Split Lip Magazine. Follow her adventures on Twitter: @Rebb003