Red Against White
The day long planned for and anticipated had arrived. Order throbbed though the morning’s apparel. The brunch tables had been set with professional care. Each plate was given a flower; a white foxglove for the groom’s guests and a snowdrop for the bride’s guest.
The gardens were immaculate and the atmosphere clear. Women with large hats weaved in and out of the wedding company, while the men meandered to food tables and through conversations. Each person was dressed in their best white and wearing the flower they had been given during brunch. The bride and groom were getting ready, each in a different room.
The groom was a tall dashing fellow with the world hanging by a string. He stood in front of the mirror admiring himself. He had little thought for what was to happen or for anyone else in the party. He smiled to himself in the mirror and began to plan his Friday night entertainments.
The bride solemnly put on her silk white wedding gown. Her mind was a gentle stir of questions and regrets. Although she knew how this day had arrived, she began to wonder how she had got to this place in her life.
“What did I do wrong?”
Reflection made her large, brown, gentile doe like eyes heavy. She reviewed every meeting she had had with her fiancée; each important, none vital to anything.
Her dressing room was filled with giggling maids and her mother. Everyone had a say in the arrangement of her hair and how to drape the dress; she stood transfixed in front of the mirror as they made their pleasures. Candle lit night after night streamed though her mind until it lightly rested on one special night.
Out of obligation she had accepted another appointment, hoping she would finally have the courage to say no to the next. She wore her sliver baby doll dress with the diamond earrings he had given her. Grudgingly she went down the stairs to await his call. Impatiently he knocked, prompt as usual. Weighted footsteps made it hard to move to his command; nevertheless, she followed him to the taxi.
He talked, saying nothing and yet everything. Her mind was not at all present, but that didn’t matter since he never required an answer. Rain began to fall, nature’s tears bathing the city lights. The rain was making the world out side a blur of color. The taxi pulled to the side of the road and he stepped out and opened the umbrella then ducking back into the cab he grabbed her hand and led her outside under the protection of the umbrella.
Hand in hand they strolled though the lamp lit park in the rain. He continued to talk and she continued to not hear. Finally he made a strange movement. He got to one knee and pulled out a box, which he opened exposing a Tiffany’s diamond ring. Her mind pleaded and her knees went weak. She bit her lip and said; quietly
“No”.
His faced looked like she had just dumped cold water over his head. He stood up with anger etched in his brow. Clasping his mighty hand over her petite shoulder he began to shout, with his arms shaking her in rhythm to the trembling of his voice. Louder and louder, the blearing noise of his voice entered her ears like knives to her peace. His grip tightened on her arms until the blood flow had stopped. Hot pins stabbed her hands and arms as the feeling in them drained out. At last they were numb. He let go and took a step back but, she only looked down at the pavement. Aggravated at the absence of acknowledgment he struck her; but she didn’t even cry out.
As her cheek began to swell he raced her to the street and called for another taxi. On the ride home his apologies were profuse and nauseating. For everything he apologized for he forgot one; to apologize for forcing her to say ‘yes’.
She looked up at the mirror. Quite the vision of white beauty, but even vanity couldn’t comfort her. Her mother came sweeping around the furniture, rearranging things as she went, until finally she made it to the side of her daughter. They stood there, the two of them looking at the other in the mirror. Two dresses cut from the same cloth.
Dana turned to her daughter and placed a white lily in her hair. The final touch. Daliah looked straight at herself. She was the vision of grace. The clock tolled twelve as she reached for her bouquet; the red carnations choked the purity of the snow white flowers from her vision.
Steph
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