The Unwed Bride

Black suit exposed, trench coat slicking in the rain, he stood leaning on his umbrella, it closed and spike firmly planted in the quickening mud. Hair bolted to his scalp, the water ran between his glasses and face, making it hard to see. But it didn't matter. His eyes were closed anyway. Thinking. He stood surrounded by people he had rarely seen, let alone met. But she had. These were the ghosts of her relationships, and she was the shatter-point; the reason they were all gathered in the rain, shoes going the hell in this downpour.

She died the week before, making a left turn in an intersection. A van, right signal on, blew through the light as she was turning, t-boning the sub-compact and ramming the girl right to Jesus. In that instant the hammer came down on her life, creating fissures and cracks between all of her relationships. Even in her death she created relationships where, before, only strangers stood.

Her mother hadn’t spoken with her dad in nearly ten years. Now, they cried on one another's shoulder, his arm wrapped round her waist, holding the umbrella over her head. In due time, they would become good friends again – never lovers – and would have lunch once a week at the all-night diner.

The rain-sodden young man continued on, his eyes closed beyond the glasses. He listened to the monk, chanting in Mandarin. He knew the girl was a Buddhist, but somehow pictured a Western funeral. The scene was correct – rain, black on black attire, tears – but the monk was unexpected. There would be a prayer ceremony to make her journey easier every seven days for the next 49 days. Her name would be written in calligraphy on the headstone and, when he died, he imagined his name would join hers, they laying together like children at naptime for eternity.

They met when he was in college. She was three years his junior and he was a fifth year senior. They talked much too late and worked at being deep and stable, with wild outbursts in the night. His favored, most untamed memories coming in waves now: he pictured the late-night runs to the top of the bell-tower, the wine-scented kisses, the unwound feeling in the pit of his stomach. His dad didn’t know what he saw in her. Her mom thought he was immature. But they worked well together, not quite opposites, but bringing a balance to the relationship. The following year, they moved in together.

Things went pleasantly, but he never gave her his name. His one regret, for the rest of his life, was that she died without his name. And he had worked so hard at making it a good one.