Days of joy

She clearly didn’t see the point. Her mouther used to encourage her to visit such events, but it always seemed to be so pathetically “too much” that she, with all her social insecurity and awkwardness just couldn’t make herself to come ever before.

Now, though, thing were completely different.

The wedding, they said, was astonishing. Breathtaking. Even stunning, yes, they agreed, completely and utterly unique in its magnificence. She thought it was exaggeration. Yeah, it was a lovely ceremony, carefully and thoroughly thought out, but she couldn’t get rid of the feeling she’s missing something. That was such a strong and unusual emotion for her commonly melancholic nature, it made her even more uncomfortable, than she already was in a dress, mother forced her to wear – a bright, colorful piece of fabric reminded her of the childhood days, when she still could choose such a cheerful outfit by herself. Now, it was so different than her normally strict, black-and-white suits and jackets, she felt like an 11-years-old she was clearly not. To make it worse, she was the only one freshman of college, stuck with middle-aged married couples, bored old ladies, their even more bored husbands and a bunch of musicians who seemed to be her age but who weren’t accessible for a conversation, which left her without any hope it will get any better.

She used to see people not in their actual looks, but rather in expressions they gave her after some time: she could know everything about her friends, but wouldn’t be able to describe their features; her mother was a blurred discomfort, teachers were grey-colored radios and strangers usually were just fast geometrical figures, who existed in the same reality, but didn’t belong to the same world. She was small. She was slow. She felt like a stone, old and ancient, unmovable, unnoticed, invisible in its ordinary presence in our life. Often she used ability to blend in with the background to escape from negative emotions – from all emotions, to be honest. She tried so hard to push everything out of her, she finally became empty. Like a decoration on a scene, she played her role of a normal human being, but such ceremonial events ripped all her costumes off – and suddenly she couldn’t stand it, the overwhelming wave of people’s talk knocked her off her feet, off balance, and gave her an extremely bad migraine.

Again and again, the history goes on circles – in the end she would be not only empty, but deadly exhausted, full of these people, their fears and thought, unable to escape from the embarrassment of being watched.

She hated being noticed.

It seemed cruel for her. Barbaric. “The best day of your life”, as they call, must be the day when I’ll be presented as a central showpiece on some kind of an exhibition of a “happy new family”. If that is truly what is called happiness, why does it look so false?

She thought she’s had enough of it. She needs air, fresh, sweet air, free of gossips and senseless compliments, she needed space, she needed…

She stopped.

The woman was sculpturesque. She once saw this term in a dictionary, trying to find extraordinary adjectives for an essay. Archaic word for an ancient sculpture. She knew it sounds ridiculous, and she wouldn’t ever say it out aloud, but it was the only word she could kept in her blissfully vain brain. The woman was a sculpture, indeed. She was elegantly beautiful, but in that odd, strangely-familiar beauty that something inside of her was making her hard to take a breath. She didn’t see woman’s face, couldn’t recognize it, for the more she was looking, the more ambiguous her features seemed. For a moment, she wondered if she is still alive, for that could be the only explanation of her feelings, the only way such a perfect creature could exist in the same space with her. She felt a sudden irresistible urge to approach. Her whole being was drawn to this woman, like the sunflowers she adored and nurtured, reaching for the sun every day to get a drop of the attention that everyone else gets. She needed to become someone to this woman. The urge of it was painfully obvious for her after only a few minutes spent in her presence. She needed that more than anything else, and the inevitable truth of it scared her. But she couldn’t make herself make a single move. She froze. Became a stone, a wind, a fleshless ghost at that party, the one that no one notices until the very end and whose only fate to serve the main character. And normally she would agree. She wouldn’t even mind taking her role, playing it with all her talent and energy, all eyes on her, not catching, not seeing.

But now it was a torture.

She has never been religious, but now she was praying for a miracle, a little, hopeful miracle, as it was the only thing she could imagine to help the situation. She wished to die for as long as she remembers, but she’s never been more eager to live. She wanted these eyes to sparkle at her, she wanted those lips to round her name out, with all its itchy syllables, with all its hissing sounds. She despised the idea of marriage, and the only thought about life with a man could make her sick, but oh, if that’s ever been an option she can see obvious advantages.

Oh, mother, she thought. I was so concentrated to not end up as you did that forgot to actually change the road.

Oh, lord, she thought. Is that what you felt looking at humankind?

She must do something – the sudden and unexpected anxiety hit her, bringing back all noisy buzzling of the guests. She almost forgot where she is. But she couldn’t remain still – and for the first time for a long, long time, she was confident of herself.

She made the first step.

She didn’t have time to drink, so her throat was terribly dry and her biggest fear now was getting lost in words.

The woman was smiling serenely, and this expression seemed extremely ironic to her. The woman was very close now, but not so close to let her count her eyelashes, distinguish the texture of her skin, see the color of the blush on her cheeks. The crowd was still too thick to let her in that inner circle of the hall, so she didn’t quite know whom the woman was talking to or who she was at all. Now, even if the whole world started to burn she would just bring the woman more wine.

She almost decided to take a glass for herself, but her hands were uncontrollably trembling, so she gave up that idea. She was almost there. She won’t miss her chance.

She took a deep breath and stepped forward, carefully avoiding the faint strangers.

***

Her husband was, indeed, extraordinary handsome. Some would even call him pretty, with all his charming smiles and elegant moves. She had been already tired of him a long time ago, but who would understand if she had strength to share that feeling with someone?

She hated weddings – even more than ordinary parties, with strangers walking around in ridiculous outfits, with clerks shaking their hands even here, with kids reminding her about what she couldn’t have. By the end she usually became so nervous and angry, he wouldn’t even dare to talk to her till the next day.

That day was meant to be no exception.

But something in the air – the whole melancholy of the crowd, perhaps, – made her far more depressed tonight. She felt inappropriate nostalgia, a strong and almost irresistible desire to return in the past, to bring all her rituals back. She could resist to such a shameful for grown-up lady impulse, but in the end, after a little thought, she gave in, attributing it to an extra glass of wine. She could do everything she wanted and no one have any right to judge her – as if anyone could hear her thought at all! – it wouldn’t make any harm to yield to temptation.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the air saturated with perfume and wine.

And she became a stone. She grew into the soil beneath her feet, became a disembodied presence in the draught in the rooms, a ghost in human skin. She became her free twin - free to dream, free to wish, free to want.

Oh, she thought. How pathetic I am.