Blues
by
Dawn Miller
The navy blackout curtains snap shut; the hotel room so dark I can barely see the diamond glimmer on my finger.
It’s been seven hours since I became a Mrs., the words something borrowed, something blue echoing as I walked the aisle, church pews garlanded in white and dusty rose, and later, the music at the reception looping through my mind: Blue Moon, Blue Bayou, Rhapsody in Blue.
I am twelve years old. The solemn hush of the priest’s vestibule. His footsteps on the carpet whisper-soft like blue suede. Polished wood gleams, the blue velvet curtains scooped back, and sunlight glints through the stained-glass window of Jesus speared and naked on the cross.
Light checkerboards the priest’s face in red and purple, and he smiles, strokes my face. Shawna and Kimmy are so jealous—I overheard their whispers. They aren’t singled out like me. Ma says it’s a gift, a holy thing. Ma says I should be grateful.
Ben’s tongue tastes sweet and tangy with merlot. I push down his hands and that trapped sensation I get when he wants to go further—Ma promises that’ll go away—and Ben is a good man, an honest man, a man I’m lucky looked my way.
In the coal-black darkness, I sense the shift of his expression, the bite of his questioning eyes. We are one now, he says, stroking my face. Don’t be nervous. This is love.
The priest tugs the velvet curtains closed, blocks the sun and blocks Jesus. His breath is sour, like the scent of that old tube of lipstick I stole from Aunt Theresa’s dresser, then returned because I’d go to hell if I didn’t.
Mouse-whiskers poke from the priest’s ears as he draws closer. God called you to me, he says, his voice low. He speaks to me. This is God’s love. A holy thing.
Ma says there are three people in a marriage: me, Ben, and God.
I sob on the phone after I’ve bolted from the hotel room, bare feet on the blue carpet, but I can’t tell her, I can’t tell Ben, I can’t tell anyone but God—except God sees everything, knows everything, so He knows all about the colour blue, all about its folds and shadows, and He hums Blue Velvet in my ear while Mom hisses through the line you’re married now, goddammit. This is love.
It’s been seven hours since I became a Mrs., the words something borrowed, something blue echoing as I walked the aisle, church pews garlanded in white and dusty rose, and later, the music at the reception looping through my mind: Blue Moon, Blue Bayou, Rhapsody in Blue.
I am twelve years old. The solemn hush of the priest’s vestibule. His footsteps on the carpet whisper-soft like blue suede. Polished wood gleams, the blue velvet curtains scooped back, and sunlight glints through the stained-glass window of Jesus speared and naked on the cross.
Light checkerboards the priest’s face in red and purple, and he smiles, strokes my face. Shawna and Kimmy are so jealous—I overheard their whispers. They aren’t singled out like me. Ma says it’s a gift, a holy thing. Ma says I should be grateful.
Ben’s tongue tastes sweet and tangy with merlot. I push down his hands and that trapped sensation I get when he wants to go further—Ma promises that’ll go away—and Ben is a good man, an honest man, a man I’m lucky looked my way.
In the coal-black darkness, I sense the shift of his expression, the bite of his questioning eyes. We are one now, he says, stroking my face. Don’t be nervous. This is love.
The priest tugs the velvet curtains closed, blocks the sun and blocks Jesus. His breath is sour, like the scent of that old tube of lipstick I stole from Aunt Theresa’s dresser, then returned because I’d go to hell if I didn’t.
Mouse-whiskers poke from the priest’s ears as he draws closer. God called you to me, he says, his voice low. He speaks to me. This is God’s love. A holy thing.
Ma says there are three people in a marriage: me, Ben, and God.
I sob on the phone after I’ve bolted from the hotel room, bare feet on the blue carpet, but I can’t tell her, I can’t tell Ben, I can’t tell anyone but God—except God sees everything, knows everything, so He knows all about the colour blue, all about its folds and shadows, and He hums Blue Velvet in my ear while Mom hisses through the line you’re married now, goddammit. This is love.