Cathleen Maza Only Just Begun
She sits on the passenger side of the old Buick, slack jawed and gazing out the window at the seemingly endless miles of farmland the car passes on the highway. Occasionally, she’ll absent mindedly use her hand to wipe at a drop of spit that keeps forming in the corner of her overly-glossed pink lips. She is slightly dazed and feeling mildly sick from the cheap tequila she had been drinking non-stop during her three hour church hall reception. Every once in a while she tries tugging the stretchy white lycra fabric of her wedding dress further down her thighs, but it insists on riding back up. The over-sized white silk lily tucked into her bleached blonde hair itches her head something fierce. She restrains herself from scratching, however. She knows if her long hair comes undone, loose strands will fall into her mouth, stick to her lip gloss,
and threaten to gag her. She isn’t quite ready to ruin the illusion of herself as a fresh, lovely bride. In the driver’s seat, her new husband navigates the car with one hand and holds his open can of beer in the other. The collar of his white dress shirt is open, his black tie hangs loosely around his neck. His suit coat is lying discarded somewhere behind them in the backseat. Every so often he rests the can of beer on her exposed thigh, snorting laughter when the coldness makes her flinch. At some point he asks for a cigarette, which she lights for him using a match from one of the books that littered the tables at their reception. She suddenly feels embarrassed by the hot pink kissing couple on the cover with “Andy and Cindy” printed underneath. How could she have picked out something so gaudy and childish? But