(Dedicated to Kate)
Cynthia sank into the chair in front of the vanity set up in the tastefully decorated hotel room. She resisted the urge to rub her eyes, knowing that it would ruin her carefully applied makeup. Taking a shaky breath, she look herself in the mirror, trying to come to terms with the pale veil, the frilly white dress beaded with pearls, the red of her lipstick.
It's your wedding day, she thought, you're supposed to be happy when this happens, aren't you?
She had just finished running off her bridesmaids and various assistants. It was just too overwhelming, the constant chatter and excitement, the stink of hairspray, the lewd jokes over flutes of sparkling wine. Her nerves already frayed and wanting some quiet to sort out her thoughts, Cynthia... well, there was no use gilding it. She exploded, yelling at them all to just get out. Already she could tell her mascara was beginning to run, although none of her assistants and hangers-on stuck around to argue with her.
To her credit, Sara, the maid of honour, immediately switched to damage control mode. Ushering everyone out, explaining that the bride needed some space for herself, she took control of the situation and gave Cynthia what she needed. Sara cast a hurt look back over her shoulder at Cynthia, though, one that made the bride's stomach twist with guilt. These people were here to try and help her, several of them, the makeup artist, wedding planner and hairdresser, just doing the jobs that they were being paid to do. They didn't deserve to get yelled at. They had nothing to do with her situation with Brad.
There was a loud knock at the door to the hotel room, and she breathed a loud sigh. "I said to give me, like, fifteen minutes, please!" Cynthia yelled over her shoulder at the door. It didn't sound like the kind of soft, hesitant knock that someone might do to draw attention from an upset friend, that she'd expect at this point from Sara. Hopefully, whoever it was would just... fuck off. Sara said she was going to tell everyone downstairs in the banquet hall that the bride needed a little more time, maybe whoever was at the door would find Sara and leave Cynthia the fuck alone for a bit.
Not for the first time that day, Cynthia ached for a cigarette, or better yet, a joint. That was, in some ways, the heart of the problem. Cynthia had always seen herself as a free spirit, a give-no-fucks goth girl who get her first tattoo with a fake ID at fourteen, who flipped off her teachers and seized life with both hands. Somehow, she had ended up in the box of the (allegedly) happy housewife, without even realizing that the trap was there for her to step into. No, she thought bitterly, the cage was built up around her, bar by bar, when she wasn't paying attention, just being a young girl in love trying get through her English degree with her sanity and finances intact.
Now, here she was, financially dependent on her fiance, with a useless degree and few real friends. Her geeky, cute high school boyfriend had started out as an earnest, passionate engineer with a brain full of ideas, a person who was just excited to explore the limits of what his field had to offer. Since the end of college, however, he had undergone a metamorphosis into an arrogant and greedy businessman, spending increasing time at the office and on business trips. He began treating his bride-to-be more as a decoration than a person, and accessory trotted out for company functions and visits to the family.
In the wake of his scrappy little startup company (that Cynthia used to be oh-so proud of, let's not forget her own role in becoming complacent, she reminded herself) being swallowed up by one of the godlike tech giants increasingly dominating the world, Brad had decided it was time to start appearing more "legit" to his new, more wealthy peer group. And that meant finally tying the knot with his longtime alt-lifestyle goth girlfriend with the pointless degree, no job and no prospects, and making her into a good little housewife to be seen at holiday parties and barbeques, and absolutely never heard.
The root of Cynthia's tantrum started that morning, when she was sipping coffee while hunched over the breakfast bar in the condo that she shared with her fiance. While fixing his own cup, her slender, dark-haired husband-to-be slid a scrap of notepaper over in her direction, one with a list of names on it.
"What's this?" Cynthia asked dubiously. She took the piece of paper and examined Brad's chickenscratch writing. It was a list of names, several of which she recognized but couldn't put a face to. The top of the list was Brad's new boss, an aging engineer named Rob with the body and personality of a saggy bag of rice, and from there it only took a second scan of the note to put it all together. These were people Brad had invited to their wedding from his work.
Brad didn't reply right away, except by the tinkle of the spoon stirring the sugar and cream into his coffee. Cynthia's eyes went from the note to the snowman-and-reindeer printed mug in her fiance's hands. She took her coffee black, and had since she was an edgy teen, though by now she had developed a taste for it. The mug in Brad's hands made her roll her eyes. Using Christmas mugs out of season annoyed her, too.
"I'd like you to make a point of dancing with these people tonight, and approach them if they don't ask," Brad explained simply, setting aside his spoon, "Everyone at work talks about how hot my sexy bride is, you'd be doing me a favour by spending some time with these guys."
Cynthia wanted to crumple the note in her fist. "Excuse me if I'm getting this wrong, but you want me to spend time on our wedding night helping you score points with your work buddies?" she asked, incredulous.
