c






 

She sank to the carpeted floor of the hotelƞs bridal suite, a haunted face obscured by a
beaded silk veil atop a cloud of heavy rayon tulle and embroidered muslin, her tear-framed sapphire
eyes a stark contrast to the overwhelming whiteness of her surroundings. Take a chance on us,
the hurriedly scrawled note clenched in her hand read; she recognized the almost indecipherable
script the minute she saw the piece of parchment hidden between the lilies in her bouquetƜand
whatƞs left of her heart sank when she realized the wedding vows that would be read to her in less
than an hour, in a cathedral decked gloriously in white and gold, were written in perfect cursive.







ƠI hate you,ơ he muttered forcefullyƜand his eyes, cold and burning, told her he meant itƜ
as his lips crushed hers and she surrendered to the onslaught of new sensations that gripped her;
and before she lost herself to the feel of sinewy arms wrapped around her slender frame and the
new trajectory his lips had taken, with a ferocious glint in her eyes, she spat back, ƠI hate you just
as much.ơƜand for a split second, she wondered, If this is hatred, what would love from this man
feel like?







ƠI love you,ơ he whispered softlyƜand his eyes, adoring and expectant, told her he meant
itƜas his lips gently met hers and she stared at the ceiling wordlessly, as if committing to memory
every distinguishable bump and crack, mentally charting constellations in the concrete to make them
seem less random, the way the confused try to make sense of fate; and as his lips traced a now all-
too-familiar trail mastered a mere fortnight ago by a different set , hoping the dark could hide the
tiny pinpricks of doubt in her eyes that grew brighter each day, she muttered, ƠI love you tooơ, too
quickly to be trueƜand for a split second, she wondered, If this is love, why would I rather be
hated?







And she knew He of the Stolen Nights would never bring her breakfast in bed or care to find
out which brand of low-calorie, low-sodium potato chips she prefers or take her to piano recitals in
the nearby conservatory; but he would walk with her to McDonalds to grab an Egg McMuffin on cold
winter mornings, rush back to the grocery the minute her nose wrinkles in distaste at the sight of
greasy, salty chips and curl up next to her in bed on lazy nights when she doesnƞt feel like dressing
up and going out, preferring conversation to classical music.







And she knew Her Perfect Fiancée would never cajole her into missing work to visit an
unknown urban art gallery in a dangerous part of town or playfully flick cappuccino foam at her
when the conversation becomes dull or deliciously ravage her with ardent kisses and electric
caresses in places previously unexplored at all the wrong moments; but he would plan every detail
of a romantic dinner aboard his yacht to perfection, listen to her talk passionately about postmodern
feminism and cultural liberalism when no one else cares to pay attention and tenderly hold her in his
arms and massage her temples whenever she feels weary and fragile.