The Bride

Clutching her coat closer to her body, she rounds the corner then stops short. A man is already there, backing carefully out of the storage unit and locking the door behind him. The way he’s standing there dumbly, holding the key in one hand – he’s seen what’s inside. She steps away from the end of the aisle to consider her options. What options does she have? The wind is blowing colder with the coming storm. There’s no going back now. Then she’s stepping quickly around the corner again, rushing towards the man in front of her storage unit.

She schools her face and stops just in front of him, looking appropriately windblown. She knows almost immediately he’s a conman of some sort. It’s the way that he uses his eyes – he keeps glancing down at her mouth. He’s laying it on thick. Alright, buddy, she thinks. Two can play this game.

He knows. She knows he knows. But he keeps skirting the issue, dragging it out. She’s getting impatient. First of all, it’s cold, getting colder. Second of all, she has little patience for a dance like this. He offers up the Silver Knight, and she agrees. If she gets there first she can plan her next move.

The motel is seedy, dingy. It was about what one could expect around these parts. She would have to make do. She rented out a room at the motel and stowed the key safely in her pocket. After a quick primp in a dusty mirror, she slid into a booth at the motel bar and ordered herself a drink. She sheds her coat while she waits. She’s not nervous. She’s thinking, planning her next move. He knows she knows he knows now. Messy. The wine arrives – it’s cheap but it’s to be expected. She takes a sip and wrinkles her nose. She sets it aside and waits. There’s no plan, per se, not when he’s already seen the groom. The TV above the bar is blaring with some story about the approaching storm. No easy way out. She’d have to face this head on.

Was she a murderer? By definition, certainly. The body in the storage unit wasn’t an accident, she had had intent when she wrapped her hands around his neck and squeezed. She could claim self-defense – it was self-defense, as far as she was concerned. Was she under and clear and present threat to her life before she did it? In not so many words, maybe. What she felt and what other people might consider reality didn’t align neatly. She could plea insanity. After all, only an insane person would preserve her wedding, her husband-to-be in a non-climate controlled storage unit, right?

The man who bought the storage unit in question slides into the booth across from her and orders himself a glass of the cheap wine. His eyes, a sickly blue, try to see right through her. Nice try, she thinks. She takes the direct approach herself, since he looks like he’s going to tip-toe around it.

God. The look he gives her. He thinks he has her – just because she can make her voice waver and her chin quiver to match. It’s laughable. She can use her vulnerability as a weapon: men can’t resist a woman who needs saving. She tells the truth, even, or close enough to it. It gives her an extra edge and, sure enough, she hooks him. He’s listening with rapt attention and those watery blue eyes never leave her face.

It’s inevitable that they end up in the motel room. The snow is already blanketing the car park. Neither of them would be able to leave anyway. She is prepared. She doesn’t like it, but she knows she can wield her body to her advantage. It’s what he expects, and it’s a small price to pay if it’s going to solve her problems. She can withstand one more indecency.

On the scratchy motel sheets, he holds her down. His hands find her neck and she does her best not to flash back to that time before. It’s hard when his face blends into – what did she call him? Clyde. Above her, watery blue eyes sink into their sockets, the skin shrinks, desiccated. She squeezes her eyes shut. The moan that escapes her mouth could be mistaken for pleasure.