It’s a hotel lobby, the kind with the beige, orange and burgundy in swirls across the carpet.
I look down at my dress, tucked in puffs that descend from my waist. Incredibly, taffeta billows from my shoulders like wings.
Hmm. How did I ever let someone convince me wear this for anything other than Halloween? I ask myself.
My wrist is looped through the crook of my dad’s arm. We pass by a table, where a man is still sticking irises into green blocks of foam inside a vase. We both stare at him as we pass by.
“These joints generally run a little behind,” dad explained.
We pass by rows of plastic folding chairs, only half full, and continue up the isle. A list of people not present in those chairs scrolls through my mind. I’m puzzled, but move on.
The few that are peering back at me block my view. I wonder with mild curiosity who he will be. When I get to the alter, he’s sitting on the steps. He looks up and we smile in recognition.
Huh. I think. It makes sense that it’s him, of any of the rest of them.
I marvel at how nonchalant I feel. After all those years, here it is. I really blew it on the planning, I think. And I’m a planner. I don’t remember booking those tables. Choosing those flowers. I don’t even know where this hotel lobby is.
I compare the drab casino-like feel of this venue to the elegant weddings of my friends. Most baffling are the vases of irises, sticking out of that green stuff like porcupines on tables scattered among the folding chairs. And I wonder why there are tables. I hear a soft ticking above, and look up at a wobbly ceiling fan.
Well, I think as he stands and we face each other. Here goes the rest of my life. I feel powerless to stop it. Again, the ticking distracts me.
I open my eyes to the circling of the fan above my bed and feel that familiar wash of relief that it’s just a dream.