r | sexual content

Her dress crinkles as she moves.

Is crinkle a word?

And she hates the neckline now, but it's too late to change it. The more she stares in the mirror, the more she hates everything. It seems too angular. Too stiff. Too formal. Too un-Donna-like. She loved this dress at some point, but at the moment, she can't recall why.

It's time.

Except it's not, it's too early, and she has to wait while other people parade on by. She squirms and twists, acutely aware of every inch of the fabric against her skin. It's too rough and confining and screw propriety; she wants to take it off, take everything off.

He's here.

She thinks, maybe. If their situations were reversed, she wouldn't have come. Sent back an excuse, so sorry, so sorry, busy that day. Other things to do. And then she would have sat at home, sipping wine and staring at the clock. Counting seconds until three, two, one, he's gone.

But he's here.

A glimpse, a flash, so many people, but she can see him. His eyes on her face and it's disconcerting, knowing that someone who saw you naked is staring at you. As if he can read her mind, his gaze travels down. There's a physical pressure on her breasts, between her legs, over her knees. She has to resist the urge to gasp.

It's too hot.

Somehow, she manages to keep walking. The fabric of her dress rubs up against her legs, reminding her of rough hands and gentle movements, the way he used to massage her ankles before kissing a path up her thighs. The few frantic times when he didn't even get her pants all the way off. Fucking - yes, that's what it was - fucking in the office, with the cloth against skin creating friction.

Too long ago.

And it's too tight against her chest, chafing her nipples. He always spent an excessive amount of time on his breasts, even though they weren't much of an errogenous zone for her. Maybe if she had said something earlier.

Too hot in here.

She can feel herself flushing, aware of the fact that she must look like a fool with bright red skin against bright white cloth. (Some people probably think she shouldn't have worn white.) She can hardly hear the words, hardly make out anyone's face. For a moment, she thinks she will faint, and wouldn't that be embarassing?

No one objects.

And then she feels like crying, because that's what she was waiting for. Of course, he'd object. Of course, he'd stop this. Of course, he'd come rushing up, taking her in his arms, making an ass of himself. It would be completely contrary to every bit of their relationship, but of course, he'd do it.

Can't completely blame him.

Shouldn't blame him at all, as she was the one who left. A strategy gone awry, but no one to blame but herself. Let everyone think they're tears of happiness as she walks down the aisle, and they are, really.

She will learn to love her husband.


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