By Kendra Whitfield

The tile is littered with paper-punch confetti and battered petals.

Feet aching and sticky hot, I emerge from the ladies’ room

Into air thick with stale champagne and bad dance music.

He catches my gaze, eyebrows raised askance.

I nod,

Plaster smile of serene joy smearing my face like day-old greasepaint.

His eyes darken, his smile fades:

It’s not a trick of the rented light cast by the cracked disco ball

In this crumbling community hall turned sacred site.

I watch him turn towards the groom at the bar across the room.

I can hear the convivial slap across the cheap-tuxedoed back

Even though the lips of the woman beside me are

Moving soundlessly,

Like an asthmatic goldfish in a murky bowl. 

I bury my face in the nearest bouquet,

Busy myself with the guestbook.

Fumbling in my sequined bag, my fingers clutch

The test instead of a pen.

That slender-flat tube of fate

Declaring the promise and erasure of all that might be.

I watch him lean closer to the groom,

Whisper in his ear,

Share a glance more intimate than any

He has ever given me.