I noticed her the way you notice weather changing, gradually and then all at once. For nearly a year she appeared two rows ahead of me at every wedding I attended, always in the aisle seat and always turned slightly toward the couple exchanging vows. She possessed the particular composure of someone who had attended hundreds of such ceremonies. Her smile arrived at exactly the right moments, and whatever she wore seemed perfectly chosen for the season, the venue, even the flowers.
For months I assumed we moved in overlapping circles. By the fourth wedding I started counting. By the sixth I began asking questions. None of the couples knew her. Her name appeared on no guest list. Photographers found her in their pictures, sometimes seated prominently enough that forgetting her seemed impossible, yet nobody remembered speaking to her at the reception. One bride studied a photograph for nearly a minute before saying the woman’s dress was exactly what she herself would have worn if she had been attending instead of marrying.
At the seventh wedding, the woman caught me watching. Her usual ceremonial smile changed into something warmer, almost relieved. She inclined her head slightly, acknowledging that I had finally understood enough to be interesting.
She attended my wedding the following spring.
Her dress matched a shade I had privately considered for the flowers and never mentioned to anyone. During the vows she watched me more closely than she watched my intended. Once, our eyes met, and for several seconds I became acutely aware of how I was standing, where my hands rested, how wide I was smiling. I adjusted all three without deciding to.
Afterward, photographs began troubling me. In every picture my posture resembled hers. Within months I caught myself using her restrained smile during arguments, funerals, even moments alone. My marriage changed too, though I cannot identify a single event that changed it. We simply began behaving like two people remembering how married people ought to behave.
Then the invitations started arriving.
Some were addressed to strangers. Others contained no names at all, only dates and locations. I attend anyway. Nobody questions me when I take an aisle seat two rows back. I always seem to own the appropriate clothes, though I no longer remember buying them.
Recently I have noticed certain guests watching me with growing concentration. When one finally catches my eye, I find myself smiling more warmly than the occasion requires. There is satisfaction in that moment, accompanied by the strange certainty that whatever I inherited was never interested in weddings themselves. It requires only ceremonies where people promise to become something, because promises apparently leave enough room for another shape to enter.
©2013 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys
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