Vow

Vow.

I sit in the back pew and watch the only woman I would ever love marry another man. To be here is risky, desperate looking even, but she is short-sighted and too vain to wear glasses on her wedding day. She is also squeamish about eyes, and wearing contact lenses would never be an option for her. So, I am safe, hidden.

I know all these things about her and yet, I am the one at the back of the church while that other man is beside her on the altar.

Can you unknow all the things that make up a person? Not just the big obvious ones, like how they take their coffee and whether they like the radio on or off in the car. The more intimate things, like how much socialising on a night out is just about enough before it tips into withdrawal, or worse, the desire to pick a fight to get to leave the party early. Knowing, by the way her eyebrows twitch, almost imperceptibly, into a frown, that it is her mother on the phone, and the advertising jingle she will hum when concentrating hard on some tasks, like putting together a bookshelf from IKEA.

That bookshelf still holds my books.

I look at the man standing beside Natalie, my ex-girlfriend. He probably doesn’t know these things yet; he couldn’t after such a short time. Maybe he will never learn them. Maybe Natalie has become a different version of herself after she left me, after the barring order was put in place.

This man has broad shoulders, and his pale grey suit makes his back look like a block of concrete.

His bald head looks to be bald by design, but men of our age only shave their heads because they have no choice. His scalp is tanned, and something about this makes me think that he doesn’t think to put sunscreen on his head, even on a cloudy day.

His name is Mike and, for the vows, he doesn’t go with the more formal Michael. Lazy, sloppy.

I picture myself there, beside Natalie. I’d be wearing dark blue to match my dark hair. Strong hair that doesn’t make me look like I’m going to get skin cancer due to ignorance. Sun smart.

I’d make sure Natalie didn’t get overwhelmed at the wedding celebration. I’d make sure she had a sip of water between sips of champagne. I’d steer her away from her mother when she came, hawk-beaked, ready to criticise, ever so nicely.

This time, I would be the one to make the IKEA furniture, and there’d be no need for her to hum jingles. She could put on her own music and dance around the living room and laugh. I would put down my Allan key and hold her in my arms and promise to love her, all the days of our lives.

This time, I promise, I’d treat her right.

I would.

But she has already said, ‘I do.’