The Inside Diaries

Mauve

"Is this a date?"

Melanija blushed. "It's a wedding for someone I know."

"In what sense?"

"In a ...writer...y...way?"

"What's the attire?" Fernando's eyes twinkled as he glanced around her bedroom, now further evolved to include less overhead faux vines, and more stained glass early morning light. And Catticus, of course, making his rounds from room to room. "And where's the registry?"

She sighed, swallowing hard, her heart positively racing, hands clammy as she stared up at him. "Look. Enough with the questions. You coming or not?"

Hands up, he finally acquiesced. "Forgive me for wanting to know—"

"Sorry—I mean I'm not sorry I'm asking—" she paused. How did this go again? "I'm kinda new at this...bringing a date to a wedding bit," noting his now somewhat smug expression. "Fine. It's a date."

"Duly noted."

Between that and a trip to the local dentist for a minor surgical procedure, she hadn't much time to waste on extraneous details. "Just—" they walked toward the kitchen. "Wear something presentable. Less torn jeans, more...slacks? Whatever beach formal means."

"Mmmk," answered he, as he gave Catticus a soft chin rub, much to the latter's enjoyment. "The registry?"

"I think they said there's none, and they're having donations sent toward the local orphanage."

"Generous—"

"Though Marcella's having her reception as a quasi-baby shower thing."

"Oh, so she's pregnant too? Anything else I'm missing?"

"Uh...her fiance's British?"

"Do they have cats?"

"I don't think their condo association allows them—" she turned to face him. "But I can check. Why?"

He shrugged. "Just asking."

A few short days later, she and he found themselves in an ivory-painted chamber, its French windows open to the sandbar, and the fast-approaching wedding. She spotted the tropical foliage-decorated archway, lined with English ivy in between along with bright pink hibiscus that looked oddly identical to the ones encircling the stop sign across from the couple's Epicenter Pico condo. A near-empty wineglass sat next to a maroon tome—the wedding records of the locale, set to record Marcella and Henry's very soon.

Suddenly, she felt a squeeze of her hand and turned. Fernando. "You ok?" He swept a tendril from her visage as she blinked rapidly.

"I-I'm fine," she answered, staring into the apricot-hued horizon. "In awe of...everything. On this island." This story she created. But where did fantasy end, and the real world begin? Was she writing the real life events of larger-than-life populace? Or creating them in her mind and having them appear before her as a glorious hallucination of her innermost desires for herself?

Melanija paused mid-thought. She could question everything, or...she could accept the way things were, beautiful, island elegant and altogether eclectic.

In the end, she chose the latter. She rose, pulling Fernando up with her, and they kissed. "C'mon," she whispered into his shoulder. "We've got a wedding to attend—" as they removed their shoes, running barefoot in the sand to a pair of remaining seats.

Mere moments later, Lohengrin began—wedding music—the attendees, a small entourage, turning to watch Marcella walk down the aisle in a gauzy empire-waist number, majestic and the full embodiment of femininity. "She's so beautiful," she overheard one say as the other nodded.

"And smart!"

She redirected her gaze to the front, where the ceremony began without further ado. Vows were read aloud by each party, a quote of Pablo Neruda recited as to indomitable summer...or similar. Honestly, the entire affair was a blur, as most special noteworthy events could be, in the most enthralling way possible.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife!"

Melanija heard cheers to her right; to her surprise it was Matias, next to an openly weeping Morgana. Weddings make me cry, the auburn-haired woman mouthed to the writer, who smiled in understanding.

An hour later, the reception occurred, a smaller affair, one to celebrate the life to come. Lovely pink balloons held sway against the oceanic breeze—carnation pink, flamingo pink, mauve, damask, and rose hues. "Have you chosen a name?" It was Fernando asking Henry the question.

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact—" the latter glanced at his newly-betrothed as if to ask, can I disclose, love? Marcella gave approval and Henry turned back. "Maya. After Maya Angelou, a famous African American writer's pen name."

"That's a wonderful name. Literary too," Fernando remarked. In the next second, another two attendees caught Henry's attention.

Melanija regarded the scene before her with a mixture of happiness, nostalgia, and...wanting. "Something wrong?" Fernando asked.

She shook her head. "No...it's just. Back where I'm from, people don't host events like this much. Sometimes people live far apart. Or...life just...happens. I've always wanted this. All this. Not, like, now, but I've always dreamed about a wedding, in the back of my mind. And a family, someday. I don't know if it'll ever happen for me—"

"Melanija," he leaned forward to kiss her, her own eyes closing, marveling at the touch of his lips upon her own, her gown swaying in the wind, "what makes you think that won't be us someday too?"

"You mean...?" She dared not hope. And yet...

"I want that too," he whispered in her ear as she positively beamed. "I want all of that, with you."