The last time he saw her they were children, cloaked in blankets and regarded as “playthings” or amusing trinkets by towers of parents and parent-friends and whatnot who sat at the spokes of a round table and discussed semi-appealing things. The last time he saw her, she blinked warmly at him and cooed a little, he giggled in childlike amour: their love was naïve. This time -- she wore a long fitted gown, trailing around ankles like a goldenrod snake and cupped at the end by fistfuls of plastic flowers. He donned a loose linen garb lined with alabasteresque jewels and quarry minerals. She looked down forever at her toes, marveled by the purity of shape, roundness, deep brown tanned toes: they were so much more fascinating than this event, for sure. The parents of each discussed dowry and money and other not-so-appealing things.
Her father-figure relative took the hand of one and placed it in the hand of the other as each were escorted to the front of a crowd of gold and silver and brown people, the plucking of a mandolin and the occasional percussion bellow echoing in the walls. Barely had his face begun to sprout the most masculine aspect, just a small patch of stubble around the chin, maybe a few hairs above his lip. She hadn’t finished growing, either, just scarcely touched the Point of No Return, after all she was there and not with her dolls and her tea and her lovely porcelain dressing counter. They were corralled around a hoop, a link, or something that bound them together, cattle to be herded and fed and walked and whipped; she was still watching her feet and this made him queasy cause what if she spend the rest of their days with her feet, what would he do then alone and cold on some silky or dusty or straw-ridden bed, play with himself? And he thought of why this thought might have possibly sprung; does it make him a man or a coward and had his father told him earlier that maybe this thought would plague him on his wedding day? He thought not and they were led to a stop, whereupon she looked up and their eyes met. She blinked warmly at him and cooed a little, he giggled in childlike amour: their love was naïve
Her father-figure relative took the hand of one and placed it in the hand of the other as each were escorted to the front of a crowd of gold and silver and brown people, the plucking of a mandolin and the occasional percussion bellow echoing in the walls. Barely had his face begun to sprout the most masculine aspect, just a small patch of stubble around the chin, maybe a few hairs above his lip. She hadn’t finished growing, either, just scarcely touched the Point of No Return, after all she was there and not with her dolls and her tea and her lovely porcelain dressing counter. They were corralled around a hoop, a link, or something that bound them together, cattle to be herded and fed and walked and whipped; she was still watching her feet and this made him queasy cause what if she spend the rest of their days with her feet, what would he do then alone and cold on some silky or dusty or straw-ridden bed, play with himself? And he thought of why this thought might have possibly sprung; does it make him a man or a coward and had his father told him earlier that maybe this thought would plague him on his wedding day? He thought not and they were led to a stop, whereupon she looked up and their eyes met. She blinked warmly at him and cooed a little, he giggled in childlike amour: their love was naïve
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