Train Of Thought

I'm not sure why I'm here.
Here, amongst the silk, the lace, the excitement over lip and nail colour, I'm a stranger. I shouldn't be here.
I don't know why she asked me.
I was his friend, not hers.
She calls my name, and I realise that I have been standing in the middle of the room, lost in thought. I feel my cheeks colour as I stammer an apology; their chorused giggles reinforcing their unity and my oddity.
I'm not sure why I'm here.

She asks for my help, and who could refuse a bride on her wedding day? Not I.
'Are my stockings straight?' she asks.
I fall to my knees behind her, checking the line of the seam. It is as perfect as she is. She is the dream bride, virginal in pure white but with costly lingerie promising all manner of sin in consummation. The beauty of her womanly form is not lost on me.
I feel sick.

She turns to thank me, looking down at me as I kneel like the penitent I am. I couldn't be sorrier that I love her fiancé.
Her smile glistens, her skin pale and perfect as porcelain but as my eyes meet hers I see a flicker of something snake like and cold.
She knows.

Clearing my throat I stand, smoothing out the satin of the dresses she has chosen for her bridesmaids. As I step back I notice something that I had not seen before; the dress doesn't suit any of us.
I hadn't expected it to suit me, I was not born to elegance and my appetite is too great to be fashionably thin. The others, though? The colour steals the life from this ones face, the shape of it makes the other look dumpy. I avoid the mirror, anticipating that I look how I feel; at best a child in her mothers clothes, playing dress up. I don't know how I will walk in the shoes.

Once again my thoughts have stolen me from the moment, and as I return to it with a blink I realise that she is now wearing the dress. My breath catches and my heart tears, as it did the moment I first saw her. I knew he was lost to me. I could not possibly compete.
She is a vision, and I say as much. It is honesty, speaking it is like ripping off a scab; oddly cathartic.

Her smile is as icy as the sparkle from the diamonds at her throat.
'Will you hold the train?'
I blink.
My peripheral vision tells me that her best friend has been wounded by the offer; her lips tighten into a rictus.
I stammer 'Of course. Thank you!' and do my best to look honoured rather than tormented.

I had expected, as the least amongst them, to walk at the end of the line. I planned to keep my eyes down, to avoid seeing him, to avoid seeing him see her. In one decisive move she has placed me where I have no choice but to walk with head high, radiating my pleasure for them, seeing it all.
I had no chance of winning the war against a woman who thinks so many moves ahead as this.
Check mate.

The day has taken on an unreal quality, abstracted, as though I look through a lens.
I feel sick.
I walk behind her, trying to think only of the delicate fabric.
I fix on a smile, concentrating on the crystals that have been sewn into the train. They sparkle so beautifully, but they are cold and hard.
I wish I could be like that, but I all pulsing, melting, messy emotion.
I take one step, then another. The music plays, we move in time, and there is a collective gasp at her appearance.
My eyes prickle hotly.
He is my best friend. I should be happy for him.
We come to a halt and I bend to lay the train out behind her. Here is her symbology; her thoughts translated through fabric. You are my servant, not my friend. You will bend at my feet, and you will smile and like it, because that is the only way you will get to be near him.

I straighten, pulling on the smile again. As I rise, my eyes are drawn to his.
I blink, startled. It is an unexpected connection; raw, direct.
He shouldn't be looking at me, he should only have eyes for her.
I see that he is agonising, and my eyebrows raise in silent question.
Blood is drumming in my ears.
Between pounding thuds I make out words. Sorry. Can’t. This.
Then he is walking past me, and then running, down the aisle, out the doors.

I feel my eyes have widened, like saucers, as they move around the room looking for some explanation. There is an explosion of sobs and angry shouts on my left, baffled silence on my right.
I catch his mother’s eyes.
Her lips are twisted in a wry smile, and she gives just the slightest tilt of her head back down the aisle. Towards the doors that are still rocking with the speed of his departure.
My own lips send an answer. I kick off the ridiculous shoes and I run after him.