Why the Bride was Late
I can't get her voice out of my head. That
little rasp of desperation.
She needed me so much, you know. I shall never, never
forget it.
Strange how happy it makes me, to be needed like that.
And what of the wedding? Well,
yes, he's handsome. Really handsome.
I'd like to feel a little jealous; but no matter how rich
he will be,
no matter how wonderful they say
he is, somehow it just doesn't touch
anything in me. There's
something inside me that just doesn't want to
be impressed. Can you understand
that?
I don't think I shall get married. Mind you, just at the
moment I
can't think straight. I just
remember how much she needed me, and
then how she looked,
afterwards...
And then, so many things! I'm struggling to get it all
into balance
in my mind. Just for example -
I got so angry at the reception! It wasn't the best man,
but it was
one of them. I suppose he wasn't
ugly exactly. He looked very young -
and his skin was shiny. I
remember that. I dare say he'd had too much
to drink. "Do you know," he said to me - and
his glass went over at
such an angle I thought he'd
spill it - "Do you know, I think the
bridesmaid was even prettier
than the bride?" He smiled really
nicely. I suppose I shouldn't
have; but in that moment I was so
angry, just so, so angry, I
looked around - nobody was looking at us
- and I stuck my tongue out at
him. And what did he do? He laughed.
I turned my back on him so fast that my dress nearly
cracked like a
whip. And I wish it had. What's
wrong with me? I suppose some people
would have been really pleased.
And I suppose, in a way I was. But it
was just so tasteless, to say
such a thing at that time. It's like
pinching the widow's bum at a
funeral, isn't it? Why can't people be
more sensitive?
I see I'm going to have to explain. I can't just start
telling the
story backwards, can I? You'll
have to forgive me. My mind is just a
boiling chaos of thoughts at the
moment. Yes, let me tell you, let me
explain properly. Otherwise I shall simply end up going round
and
round, like water down the
plug-hole, and I'll end up driving myself
mad.
So, where do I start? Not when she first met him - that
wasn't a
particularly memorable event.
Nor when she went away to college -
although, for me, that was all
too memorable.
No, I have to go right back to the beginning, to when I
was just
twelve. That was when she suddenly sat up in bed and
looked at me,
and even though I was deep in my
book I knew she wanted to talk to
me. Do you know, I can't
remember that book at all? Strange, really,
because I can remember
everything else as if it happened five minutes
ago.
It's good for me, you know, telling you this. I really
would be going
mad otherwise. I hope I'm not
boring you.
Anyhow: what she said was: "Hey! I've just
discovered something that
feels really wonderful!"
I could easily have said "So what?" or
something equally disdainful.
We were like that, she and I. But there was something in
her
expression that was particularly
alive, as if there was some really
big idea in her mind. She was
looking right into me. I couldn't help
it. I was curious.
"What's that?" I asked. "Show it to
me." I expected her to show me a
piece of velvet or satin, or a
soft cuddly toy, or something like
that.
But instead, she just got out of bed and padded over to
me. She threw
my bedclothes aside and snuggled
up to me.
I was surprised. "What are you doing?" I asked.
"Hitch up your nightie,"
she told me. "Right up." Her voice was all
warm and breathy. She sounded
excited.
I obeyed her. I hitched it up. I wasn't wearing anything
underneath.
She put her hand on my thigh. "What are you
doing?" I asked.
For a moment, I was a little afraid.
"I'm just going to show you. Shut your eyes. Just
feel what I'm
doing."
Her voice was so gentle, and her eyes so tender, that I
did what she
told me. And when her hand began
to move, my mind seemed to float off
into space. She was right. It did feel nice. "I like
this," I said.
"Just wait!" She said it with a soft,
confident, grown-up little
laugh. Gradually, her hand moved up and up, and all
the time it was
feeling lovelier and lovelier. I
didn't know where I was; I didn't
care that I was bouncing around
and moaning like an idiot: all I
could think of was the magical
sensation of her fingers on my
sensitive places. And then she
touched me there - you know where I
mean. Of course, she had been
aiming for it all along. I suppose I
just went wild, and for a moment
she took her hand away.
"Don't worry," she assured me. "You'll get
used to it. Just
concentrate on the feelings -
you'll really like it."
"But it feels so... so..." I couldn't explain.
It was taking me over
so completely.
"Just trust me," she said. "I promise
you'll like it." Her voice was
so gentle, and her eyes so
tender, that I parted my legs again and
wriggled into a more comfortable
position.
"All right," I said. "I'll try."
She put her fingers back, but didn't move them. "Are
you very
sensitive?"
I nodded. Just having her fingers there at all was doing
extraordinary things to me. But
then, very slowly, she began to move;
and every imperceptible movement
was like looping the loop in an
aeroplane.
Several times she hushed me, but I didn't care. It was
exhilarating, and frightening,
and lovely, all at the same time. And
then, suddenly, it all became
too much and I felt totally
overwhelmed. I was really
frightened, but she was saying "yes, yes,
yes," over and over again, and
somehow that comforted me. Her face
was ever so close to mine, her
eyes big and round, looking into my
very soul.