'Trinity' by Sharon Boyle

She stands, he stands, the minister stands. A triangle of accord, balance, composure. She is dressed in stainless bright white, the colour of conviction. Her mouth grins. Her skin glows. Her hands grip the bouquet, stress and strain buzzing within her. The minister drones on and on. And on.

For better, for worse

It can’t get much worse.

There’s another triangle here – angles edgier, spikier, more destructive. She, he and the other. The brother. Sitting in the back pew clad in black. He is silent today. Last night he was noisy – noisy-angry, noisy-bawling, noisy-bellowing, begging, biting into her decision. Just cancel.

In sickness –

Say you’re ill, just cancel.

And in health

I can’t. There’s expectations, considerations.

The triangle needs reshaping: stood on, stomped on, pulped, levelled to a single taut line from her to him.

But which him?

He says: You love me.

He says: You love me not.

To love and to cherish

Does she take this man? Or that man?

The minister is looking at her, noticing her nerves, smiling encouragement. The groom is looking at the minister, concentrating on the vows. She is looking at the groom. Expectations, considerations. Completing family circles. Closing decisions.

Cancel.

She turns from the groom, to the back pew, to him.

Till death us do part

Getting married is as easy as A, B, C. As easy as Death.

Speak now or forever hold your peace

She opens her mouth. She speaks.