His and Hers - unfinished

His

            “Just my luck” is one of those phrases that is passed around by balding accountants, the perennially laid off, and those who just can’t seem to get a date. It was not something he would ever say, although to an onlooker, the phrase might just fit – provided he or she did not know the true impact of luck on that particular day.

            The morning after it happened, he analyzed every second of the day, every decision he had made, that those around him had made, and all the things he could have done differently, better, faster, all the things that could have changed the day he left his bride standing at the alter.

 

Hers

            She had the tendency to see what she wanted to see and hear what she wanted to hear. In fact, you could argue that he hadn’t actually proposed when he said they should be together forever, but nonetheless here she was - six months, four days and 19 hours later – silently fastening her veil. 

 

            His

            Beautiful women were always approaching him, making small talk, smiling coyly, some even asking for HIS number.  And who could blame them – he knew he was a catch – ruggedly handsome, in reasonably good shape, well educated and funny.  Although they never said it, he knew his friends wondered why he was with someone so…quirky.  He’d be lying if he said he never wondered it himself, especially at times when she’d forget to shower for a few days, or lock her keys in her car for the upteenth time. But then she’d smile, and come up with some crazy fun idea involving soap in the neighbor’s fountain or sex on the hood of the car. A model she was not, but as they say, Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder.  And he intended to hold her, for better or worse.

 

            Hers

            They were supposed to get married at the University chapel, where they had met as seniors, both trying to find God and a job. Father Fred was officiating, his parents were hosting the reception at their home on millionaire row and her brother was her Man of Honor. She had been planning this day for months, and was excited, despite a deeply ingrained impulse to elope. She had begged him to disappear with her, to wed in a tiny Elvis chapel on their way down South to nowhere. She was sick of the rain, sick of frizzy hair and runny eye makeup.  But he loved the city’s shiny sidewalks and evergreen foliage and she loved him.  This is why she stayed, why she agreed to this happily ever after parade.

 

            His

            They were playing a joke on him.  A half-hearted attempt at saving him from the ‘ole ball and chain. Guys being guys, messing around. That’s why they took his phone, his wallet and his shoes and put him on the South Lake Union Trolley. His last harrah, one last night as a free man, one last ride on the S.L.U.T. It’s true he shouldn’t have drank so much, especially the night before the wedding. But at the time it seemed like the thing to do – to get caught up in the moment, to take the shots being handed to him, to slur his words and admit cold feet, and let himself be led to the trolley stop.

 

            Hers

            At first it was just a nagging feeling, a general queeziness that she chalked up to nerves.  But as each minute passed without a phone call, she became more and more convinced that it was really happening. Her greatest fear, her most secret anxiety was actually taking place. He was leaving her. He was leaving her for one of the trust fund beauty queens his mother was always throwing at him. She knew it in her heart, in her soul and now as the clock inched toward the 10 AM ceremony time, she knew it in her bones.

 

            His

            It was 8 AM Saturday morning when he stumbled off the trolley at Pacific Place and first faced the reality that he might not actually be getting married that day.