She is standing in front of a mirror. The ivory satin is heavy. The price tag has a few too many zeros. But she’s never seen her silhouette quite like this, like she caught a glimpse of herself growing into the barbies she was handed. She cries a little. Her mother cries too.
He is at a screen in another room. The site had 62 million views this month alone. the forum loads. He has found a brotherhood, a community.
She walks through a venue—garden light, trimmed bushes, floor to ceiling windows. She imagines the aisle. She imagines his face.
He is taking notes. He is learning what amount. What to mix it with. how to not accidentally end her life. He bookmarks a thread.
She is on Excel organizing the guest list to send to the calligrapher. Is this uncle still talking to that uncle? Is two tables enough to separate them? Does that divorced aunt go by her maiden name now? This laid finish linen paper or this cheaper off white matte one? She wants people to feel even before they open it, that she’s thought about them, that something sacred is beginning.
He is on telegram. He has found a man who ships. Tasteless. Odorless sleeping liquids. He paid $20 to watch another video. The woman in it is surely sleeping. “This is the one,” he wipes his semen, the paper towel misses the trash can. he pays the $175.
She takes a bite of the stuffed mushroom and the stuffed peppers. “this is the one,” she laughs.
In the entryway staircase at epstein’s mansion, there is a bronze sculpture in a wedding dress that can’t feel anything, and can’t remember anything. Unable to speak. unable to leave.
She is wearing ivory satin.
He has everything he needs.
