Not Us
by Wendy J. Fox

It wasn’t until my second wedding that my first divorce really sank in. I was under the gazebo, waiting for my bride, Raquel. Raquel with the long auburn hair, tips dipped green, pink feathers woven in, and a braid with a purple ribbon wound around the crown of her head. Raquel, white dress, stitched with rhinestones and fake pearls. Raquel, whose borrowed diamonds from some rich friend made my ring to her look like a speck of mica. Raquel, barefoot on the grass that led up to the gazebo.