You're standing at the alter as I run down, shoes crushing the ends of my wedding dress like they do to all my too big jeans. You're standing at the alter bored out of your mind, digging a cross into your palm and watching the blood darken the already red carpet. I do an awkward half run up the steps and wave politely at the religious folk who has been tasked with marrying us. You lean forward a bit and smear some of the blood on my dress, cut getting caught in the decorative pearls and lace of my bodice. I'm barely offended, mainly I'm nervous. This will be a very nice day I think. Our only witness is the dog you insisted on taking home all those months ago, the dog that doesn't quite fit in our trailer but still sleeps on our bed with us. I giggle at its tail wagging, its drool and spit spilling over the chain wrapped around her neck. The man starts talking and I watch you watch me, eyes focused so intently I can tell you aren't hearing him. I am though. I've always been a little religious, at the end you grab me by my shoulders and crash our lips together, my hands fist in your greasy hair and the religious man laughs and claps loudly. Our dog barks and jumps off the pew, runs to us then back to the cherry cake I bought us at the grocery store. We're married and it's the greatest day ever.
