Thirty-Five.

Thirty-five years. Thirty-five years and there’s finally a bouquet in my hands, a garter on my thigh. I have not settled like my sister says, she doesn’t recognize the unique relationship Bill and I have.

She doesn’t realize that we’re silent because he’s tired, because I’m chewing. Or that I like the way he works ‘til dawn, it means that he’s committed to something. She doesn’t understand that we don’t believe in PDA.

I’m finally married. I’ve got that ring, that walk to remember, a reason to procreate responsibly.

                We’re finally standing here together, staring into some overly-scruffy man’s Nikon. He goes to reload the film and Bill’s hand leaves my waist. He looks away and runs a hand through his hair, thinking. I steal a glance to check if my train is mud free. The only thing I hear is the click of the film dropping into the camera. I try to remember that my sister is wrong and that I’m thirty-five.