We’d planned it down to the last detail, listed everything we could control and those things that we could not.
Ivory or pure white? Patterns or solids? Seasonal market or pampered hothouse? Matching sashes and bowties? Or solemn dark, like a tight-packed box of Cuban cigars?
Cuban cigars…Now that’s an idea! Think of the photos!
And who will stand up for us? A pair of brass bookends, one on each side of the story of our love, or a riot of friends to avoid a social slight? A mile-long banquet table to feed a nation, or penguins waddling among carefully assigned seating, master sommelier flapping his arms in distress?
Open or cash bar? My father’s unarguable choice is open, and a round of beef at two stations, with twin white-capped assistants standing by with carving knives stiff and erect “because anything else will look cheap.”
Evening or afternoon? Square tables or round? Who gets to sit closest to the two of us? Do we make a separate table for the singles, and spread the bad seed for another pair of poor, unfortunate souls?
Seriously, who will stand up for us?
Endless lists of endless details, not one of which included random chance, or Faith. And the end result was that we just…didn’t get it done. Not in the way we were supposed to, anyhow.
So here we sit at a dark metal table in a tiny Greek village, admiring moonbeams through squat glasses of cheap white wine. A warm breeze carries the scent of Minotaur and mermaid, beyond where the fishing boats sleep and rock in the undulant harbor.
You tip the last ribbons of retsina into my glass, and I marvel at its resin and its sparkle, so pure.
You raise an eyebrow and sweep a sleepy hand at the waiter, his eyebrows as thick as his generous mustache, and he smiles, dark eyes twinkling, and steps into the taverna. He returns with another bottle, and a plate of flat bread, feta, and kalamata olives.
“For your honeymoon, Sir,” he murmurs, as he fills your glass and sets the bottle and plate in the table’s perfect center.
We raise our glasses in a grateful toast to aphelotés: simplicity.
We got it done.
Liz Husebye Hartmann
Midtown Writer’s Prompt: 4 minutes on “We didn’t get it done.”