Even the hired clowns never knew what hit them, their tearstained faces running off into an oblivion of polyester, their paintbrushes thrashing around in a silver bowl of cold tomato soup, their parrot-coloured paints streaking across white linen tablecloths: while a nearby abandoned piano made the most of its only tune, keeping an eye out for the coat-check girl, helping herself to hundred dollar bills from every finely culled wallet she rubbed up against with the storytelling lines of her hands: as the stragglers blocked as best they could the muttering walls, repeatedly announcing the abbreviated names on the guest list, including the young cousins hiding in the discarded folds of the paint-stained wedding dress, playing cards in the hope of drowning out the din on the other side of the ruined silk: where the lofty dreams of lovers grew green horns and a tail, leaving only the light-footed priest untouched, and alone in signing the register, his inscription reading: This will not stand.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *