My Wedding Dress

The next morning I opened my eyes to the curtains in the hotel bedroom. They were a soft cream color, framing the window. Beautiful curtains, porous and enigmatic, curtains of fine lace, impossibly feminine. They were the first thing I saw that morning, the morning I became a married woman, still a virgin, wound up in the comforter like a caterpillar.

The lace curtains said good morning. Good morning! I said. Good morning, lace curtains. You’re very beautiful! Did you sleep well? Yes, thank you. I slept well—this bed is incredible! I am happy to hear that. Thank you, dear curtains . . . We exchanged courtesies, then fell silent, the lace curtains and I. I looked at them, they looked at me. I touched them, reached my hand out to examine the immensely beautiful lace, perfect in itself, whose designs were endlessly suggestive. This fabric was so lovely. So lovely!

I decided that these curtains would be my wedding dress.

Then I grew aware of the deep sound of his breathing. I looked behind me and saw him, sleeping like a child. He was handsome, with beautifully arched eyebrows and thick eyelashes, a lovely tan complexion, prominent cheekbones, dark lips. I wondered if he smoked. He had broad shoulders, a wide chest. Tall and slender. He was ideal, this knight, Faris, except that he’d never once been a part of any of my dreams.

*

I liked him and feared him. I couldn’t believe how real he looked. Did I really marry this man? Who is he? A minute later I had one thought in my head.

I have to get out of here.