Monday, July 2, 2012

Love by Eric Fischl

If this was love, she wanted a piece. 

As weddings go, this one had been relaxed, easy. 

Who skips vows? But she'd been relieved. They'd moved onto the beer. A lot of the guests waded into the water, she stayed on sand. 

Her feet burned slightly, her fingers grew numb from the chilled bottle. Nobody cut the cake.

She waited till sundown to leave. The party hadn't thinned. 

She carried the last bottle back to a disposal crate, said goodbye. 

If this was love, she wouldn't mind.