The one of me as bridesmaid at Nancy’s wedding in my peach satin dress ballooned below the waist and that stupid faux flower wreath thing on my head. The fourteenth of May Nineteen Something Something. My mother always used to say photos should have dates at the back, and this one does but the last two digits have faded, the photo is a relic, but I remember the exact date, the precise moment the flash went off, because take a look at who’s standing next to me, to the left, gawping (at the photographer? at the wedding cake? at the guests?) Max Goldstein! Aka Goldie. Much taller than anyone else, in his striped purple-lavender shirt and navy blue suit, the picture of a cliché, glass of champagne in hand, toasting or not toasting, focused entirely in the direction of bride and groom who are not in the photo, focused on Bride with a capital B, most likely. Bride, certainly. We all knew, didn’t we? Or did we? Bride, as it turned out. And just look at my face, turned slightly to the left, looking up.
Nora Nadjarian is a poet and writer from Cyprus. Her short fiction has been published in journals including Milk Candy Review, Ghost Parachute, Fractured Lit and was chosen for Wigleaf‘s Top 50 (selected by Kathy Fish). She placed third in the Welkin Writing Prize in 2025.
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