He is standing behind me, clasps the ring of pearls around my neck. I am wearing the white of a virgin, opaque, opalescent, a lie. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.

We stare at who we are and who we will be come next June. Soft light flows from the west window and softens the lines as if we were drawn in pastels. Neither one of us moves to blink, his hands rest on my shoulders, young blood blushing his smile.

I look happy. I am happy. Was he?