ELEVEN

We got married in a beautiful ceremony at city hall. Janice wore a pair a boy shorts and a tank top and some gauzy shit all over her head. She also had the remnants of a pearl necklace in the back a her hair. But that's s different story. I wore my work clothes: coveralls and a baseball hat. We exchanged rings and everything, kissed, signed papers, then we were done. We were fucking married.

We left outta there arm in arm, the way you see in the movies. Only difference was we didn't have nobody celebrating out nuptials. On the way down the front steps I said, "Hold on," and grabbed a bag a rice, which I'd hid behind a red grease rag, outta my pocket.

When I showed it to her she smiled and said, "Oh, Bobby, you think of everything. It's perfect."

She was putty in my hands after that.

But things weren't perfect. Never are. Never will be. This is the real world. This isn't no movie or some fairytale that works out for the best at the end. This was real life where people got fucked and the good guy don't always win. Big whoop. In time I'd learn just how true that was and what kind a fuck I'd married, and she'd learn more about me. But if you can't look past your partner's faults on your wedding day, when can you? So right about then everything seemed fine.

We broke open the bag and threw one handful a rice in the air after another till it seemed like we were in a blizzard of rice. We danced around. Then, one pigeon at a time landed at our feet, and soon there was a huge collection a birds around us. I kissed her. When I pulled away she was crying happily. "I love you," I said, even though I wanted to kick myself in the nuts for saying it.

"I love you too, Bobby."

Then we waited for a bus to come by.

Standing there on the front steps a city hall with the pigeons and rice all around us was the last time we were happy together.