The day before the wedding, I stopped at the bodega outside our address and allowed myself a moment of bliss in smelling all the flowers. I bought a bottle of Prosecco and a bundle of 5 pink peonies, their scent as present as the promise of bubbles and happiness.
The Professor and I got up like any morning on Bloomsday, June 16, and dressed. We took a taxi to his mother’s apartment, where she gave me an antique Hermes scarf and a gold circle pin. I gave her a peony from my small Saran-wrapped bouquet to wear. We fumbled with securing it to her jacket. Then we set out for Canal Street.
At the courthouse, we sat on folding chairs beside the restroom. Women passed to and from in floor-length white dresses, and the door squeaked every time it opened or closed. The Professor wore an old but beautiful gray suit and his Church’s shoes. I wore the new white linen suit I bought at Saks and nude pumps.
His mother commented that there were a lot of brides around. The Professor commented that we didn’t see any grooms.
After the wedding, we dropped off his mother, ate at a museum’s cafe, changed to our everyday clothes, and got back to work on our books. The flowers were already fading, and the Prosecco was saved for a later day that never happened.
Lo Scriviti 