It was November 15th, 1936, and we were twenty-nine.
The wedding was small, although a great deal of the village were there, since -in one way or another- we were all acquainted.
I finally had the pleasure of meeting your friends from university. There were some remarks about the ex. There was some approval and some playful insults. They were a raucous group, and I wasn't sure I liked them all too much, but they were your friends, so I learned to tolerate them.
Our friends were there too. They insisted that this had always been 'destiny', that everyone had seen it coming, even when we were avoiding each other all those years ago. I scoffed and said there was no such thing as destiny. But behind my back, where you thought I couldn't see, you had smiled your agreement.
A lot of things happened that day, but there are two which stand out.
The first was the fact that you couldn't dance to save your life. Rhythm was beyond your comprehension, and our first dance ended in near-disaster, though you were too busy trying to distinguish between your left foot and your right foot to care.
The second was the look in your eyes when we were standing at the altar. I imagine the look in my eyes was similar. It was a look triggered by the knowledge that this was it; this was –forgive the cliché– our happily ever after.