everything was perfect. grains of sand stacked vertically and chosen to match the curtains. the lines of the night had been rehearsed two weeks prior and the guest list, OH the guest list! people from elsewhere and those inescapably known everywhere. charm was swirling with the buzz of this perfection. the aura of post sex fatigue without the sweat. thinking became a debilitation, a deviation from the plan, tweaking the order. the alter designed to challenge any claims of creation. it seemed that for the first time money had bought everything. the Rube Goldberg of their lives to be seemed extravagant enough to solidify their vows of rehearsed rubber. unbeknownst was the utter anguish that would one day become their oxygen. it wouldn’t matter that this day was constructed as a blueprint for their happiness. It wouldn’t matter that their toil dwelled apart from economic struggle or self-lack-of-confidence. their foil would be much less empathetic. quite contrarily, it would instigate sardonic pleasure in the lives of people who only ever dreamed of their chance. the congratulations were bounded inherently to their inevitable withdraw and replacement. but a veil was certainly in place and going back was teenage angst not appropriate for their grown up universe.
till death do us in