I can see now there were problems in our relationship-huge problems, like trust, respect, and sexual compatibility. The house was perfect the car, a smoky-gray Citroen, was perfect the clothes and restaurant and champagne. I was raised in the country he was French together that made us French country. I’ve been married and divorced, and I’m not even twenty-six. But I was the one in the wedding gown, and then I was the one talking to a lawyer, and I was the one who had to ask my brother and my girlfriends and their boyfriends to help me pack so the movers could move me. I still can’t quite say it, can’t feel anything when I think it, can’t imagine that we’re now talking about me. Such a big concept for what amounts to a little word. When you’ve done the big wedding? The dream honeymoon? What happens after the fantasy’s over? What happens now? What happens when you’ve had the fairy tale? There goes the groom, running from the room.Īnd there’s my single mom, spending the next twenty years paying for a lavish wedding for a marriage that didn’t even last a year. Here comes the bride, all dressed in white.
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