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now, like I’m a candle wick and he’s this insane flame that sets me off whenever he gets near. It burns hottest between my legs.
     
    I wonder if he touched me, could he feel it? If Mortar touched between my legs, would he know that just looking at him makes me moist and fidgety? Would he be able to see the images forming in my brain: of him pushing a hand up the folds of my wedding dress, pushing aside the white lingerie, and pressing a long finger into my wet cunt? Would he bury his tongue there, too?
     
    Enough , I tell myself. I force my attention back to the food in front of me. Grady and I are sitting at a table in the middle of the auditorium where the reception is taking place. We haven’t said a word to each other.
     
    “Eat,” he tells me. “We paid a fuck ton of money for this food.”
     
    I slice a forkful of fish off of the filet and raise it to my mouth. As it passes under my nose, I get an overwhelming whiff of the spicy seafood smell, and my stomach rumbles warningly. I set the silverware back down.
     
    “I’m sorry. I’m just not hungry,” I tell him.
     
    “Fine. Just waste my money. Same as you always do.”
     
    I can’t respond to this. I thank God that someone comes up to the table just then to pat Grady’s hand and give him their best wishes.
     
    “You and your wife must be so thrilled to get married finally,” says the old man. He’s a retired cop, I remember, who I’ve met a few times before. Thompson is his last name, I think. Wife. The thought is even more repulsive than the food.
     
    I seize the wine glass next to my plate and toss the whole thing back. I need to be blind drunk right now, or maybe I’ll skip the drunkenness and go straight to unconscious. Anything to make this go away.
     
    It’s all too much at once, and the alcohol breaks down the last of my power to hold all these thoughts at arm’s length. They come rushing in at once, hungry to batter me into submission.
     
    The studio. Mortar. Grady, my husband. The money I’ll never be able to make. It’s a broken record of failures and punishments I never thought I deserved. But they’re relentless, bashing into me over and over. I’ve been fighting it all day, but the urge to vomit rises another notch, and I decide I can’t fight it anymore.
     
    “I’ll be right back,” I gasp, and tear away from the table before Grady or Thompson can say anything.
     
    I push through crowds of people, ignoring everything they’re saying. I need to get out, to breathe, to escape for just a moment from the encircling tentacles looming around every corner. Threading between tables with my skirts clutched in one hand and the other pressed against my mouth, I finally make it to the double doors at the far end of the hall.
     
    I push through. To my right is the front door, while the kitchen sits at the end of the left. I turn left.
     
    The heat of the kitchen hits me like a humid slap. I keep moving. “Fresh air, fresh air,” I repeat to myself endlessly, like that will make all of this go away. Waiters look at me, confused why the bride is storming through the food prep area. There’s an exit sign above a rusty door just past the ovens.
     
    I make it there and push through, and then finally, finally salty, open air rushes into my mouth. I manage to keep the vomit in my stomach, but the tears are unstoppable. I fall to a seat on the steps. I don’t give a damn if I ruin my dress. The only thing left to do is cry. It’s a hideous, full-bodied cry, like the tears are starting in my toes and gathering steam all the way through my legs and torso before they erupt out of my mouth and nose like a gushing faucet. I feel disgusting. My face is blotchy and wet with snot. Isn’t a bride supposed to feel beautiful on her big day? If this is the best day of my life, kill me now.
     
    Eventually, the flood of tears starts to slow somewhat. I let my head fall into my hands. Hiccups rack my frame for a while until they, too,