Blake Morgan

The afternoon sun beat down on the pink & white roses, making the scent thick & nauseating. The white carpet felt soft underfoot. My father’s arm was heavy in mine, his breath hitching as he wiped at his face. Ahead stood Arthur, rigid & perfectly tailored, a sensible solution to a 5 year old vacancy. Five years since the red lipstick on the bathroom mirror. Just the word "sorry" & an empty closet. Blake was not just a mystery; he broke my heart. My mother crumpled before I reached the altar. It was a quiet, sudden folding of her linen suit into the front row. The crowd shifted, a collective gasp rippling through the rows. My father dropped to his knees, fumbling with her collar. Someone handed me a bottle of water. I knelt, pressing the cold plastic against her wrist, completely detached from the commotion. When I looked up past the hovering relatives, he was standing by the entrance. Blake. He was chalk white, his shoulders drawn inward as if trying to occupy less space. Arthur was looking past me, raising a hand to signal his brother Blake, forward with a familiar, welcoming gesture. The noise of the chapel dropped into a dull hum. I stood up, leaving my mother on the floor. My heels clicked against the stone border of the carpet. Blake did not blink as I approached. My almost to be mother in law walked to welcome him with the word "Son". He looked exactly as he had the morning he left, utterly devoid of explanation. Then a woman stepped out from behind the floral arrangement & slipped her arm firmly around his waist. She didn't look at me. She looked at Blake, her fingers anchoring into his suit jacket. "We are done here," I said to Arthur, though I did not look at him. I turned back toward the aisle. Blake stood directly in my path, his mouth slightly open, eyes hollow. As I passed him, I swung my hand back & slapped his cheek. The crack echoed against the high ceiling. Nobody moved. I walked out into the heat alone.