She looked at the parking lot full of cars, at the people scurrying around and through them to get to the church door. All that polyester and wool. Men and women are tightly bound by conformity. It all came together.
She looked down at her own formal attire. The expected white dress, simple and expressionless... Just like Michael.
How did she let it get this far? The unspoken words screamed in her head, and she began to feel more and more constrained by it all.
Suddenly she felt suffocated in satin and taffeta. She reached back into the unassuming black car that had brought her here, grabbed a bottle of champagne intended for later, and only one glass.
She took them with her to the lawn behind the church, took off her dress,
hung it on a branch and went to a shady place behind a rock by the stream.
Stretched out on the damp greenery, she felt the coolness under her bare skin and realized that she could breathe again.
Michael would never have understood that side of her. He would spend his whole life trying to cover for her.
She pulled out the cork and poured the champagne into her lap, holding it there, between her thighs, until the liquid settled and began to ooze out.
She needed to be with someone who wanted to taste it, not wipe it with a napkin.
(Ship Shard) "A piece of summer and a runaway bride"
Russian-language publication https://dzen.ru/a/ZK7RQPavIVSIJQMK on the Zen blog https://dzen.ru/shipshard
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