You May Kiss the Bride?

For fun and laughs.  Inspired by a real conversation (unfortunately).  This one's for you, Roomie!


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You May Kiss the Bride?

There came a time in my life when I found myself married to my roommate.  He wasn’t an immigrant trying to keep his green card.  He wasn’t running from the law.  He wasn’t the love of my life.  In all truth, he wasn’t a “he” at all.  Her name was Kelsey, and we’d been friends since ninth grade AP Biology.

I wasn’t in love with her and, as far as I know, she hid no secret passions for me.  We had gotten close over panicked phone calls about chemistry homework, over food runs and the school musical and shared friends.  When the time came for all of us to go our separate ways, Kelsey and I didn’t.  We both went to a small liberal arts college in the middle of Boston, pursuing our dreams and pledging to keep each other motivated along the way.

It was just at the end of the spring semester of our freshmen year when, unceremoniously, Kelsey and I decided we would wed.  Our school only allowed seniors to move into off-campus housing, but we were both already fed up with dorm life.  Underclassmen could move into their own apartments if they fit one of only a few exceptions.  One was to join the military.  Another was to have a psychiatrist declare you unfit to live in the dorms anymore.  Another was to be married.

Smack

Rated mature for drug use, language, and adult situations.  If "adult situations" means arguing with your on-again, off-again significant other about who's the worse drug user.

Marleybone is my tiny, fictional, New Mexico town that will probably be the center of either a series of short stories and vignettes or a novel (I'm leaning towards the latter at the moment, but we'll see).  Shauna's the same that shows up in the flash fiction piece "Fantasies"; you can get the gist of her relationship with Beau from "Love Songs."

I love constructive criticism - so do your worst!

Mama

I've been neglecting you, Sparks + Splinters Fly!  Forgive me!  And please accept this tiny vignette as a token of my affections :]


More stories to come, as I quit being lazy and start being a writer again.


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Mama

Mama hadn’t risen from her spot in the wingback chair in the living room in – dear God, had it been days?  She sat in the darkness, the curtains drawn on the front window to block out any of the cheery afternoon light, the same Edith Piaf record playing to its end over and over again.  Sometimes, she’d listen to the same song over and over, always the same song, if she so chose to repeat it – “Non, je ne regrette rien.”  Did she have something she had thought was worth regretting?  What had Mama been keeping from them, all these long years?

Did Papa know?