But here was the thing.
They would not accept their story to end here and now. Seventeen was too young for closing the book, no matter on what note it ended. And how were they to really know if all went happily?
They were the last ones left at the wedding reception, sitting at a table with knocked over chairs and scattered gold confetti and gardenia petals while eating the rest of their wedding cake. They made a list. Where to live, how many children, cat or dog, whom of all they knew would stay in their lives. Having gotten lost and overwhelmed by this list, the Bride stood up and turned the table over, sending the strong gardenia scent up into the air and chunky specks of gold to the night.
Now they were away from this place, taking a cab away to calm her down. Where were they going? Wherever it was, she wanted to make sure it was well worth the torn dress suffered rushing into the cab, the lost long string of pearls from her mother-in-law as it caught in the door and dissolved by beads in the cool wind of June. Holding her hand, the caring Groom leaned over and kissed her brown eyes, closing them shut. As she stayed this way in a silly, dream-like state, he told her they weren’t that far from where they were heading.
She would soon see that where they were going wasn’t the case. They would stop at where this tale had once began, an intersection off the Market Street by the water and where the pavement from crushed glass twinkled under the bridge light.
In the breeze and amongst night pigeons, and as her flowing tears mixed with the salt of the spraying air, all he could console her with was that despite not knowing where would be next, they always had the happy beginning to come back to.