Neale Sourna's No Wedding Night [A romantic short story / fiction]

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No Wedding Night

A wedding, a reception brawl, and the bride and groom’s wedding night will be in jail. Or will it?

_866 words Romance

No Wedding Night

by

Neale Sourna

_Las Vegas NV USA; Today

Fisticuffs, as my Great Gran would say, broke out at our wedding; just before our vows were done. It was my bride’s brother against my best brother slash best man; then her sister slash matron of honor against my favorite girl cousin teamed with that cuz’s favorite BFF.

A groomsman, with valiant stupidity, waded into the fray—with the unladylike womenfolk—and got promptly damaged, slightly.

The police were called, by someone. No one’s admitting it. The cops settled everyone down. Thankfully, no one went to jail, or the hospital.

All right the hard part.

She cried, out of frustration, out of disappointment, out of embarrassment, while locked in her vestry dressing room, and she finally let me in, and finally let me talk her back to the altar to say our I do’s.

And we did, but the bad vibes hung there, I guess, contaminating everything, festering beneath our fašade of happiness.

My family doesn’t like her family and ditto with her family’s feelings toward mine.

It seems that our making them both one family wasn’t working out. Isn’t this why old countries used to marry off their royal kids to their rival warring kingdom, in order to make blood peace? I must be the only one who loved history class. Of course, blood peaces resumed many a blood war.

We went to the reception, we had a peaceful meal and sweet toasts and teary eyed toasts and funny toasts, and we had our first dance, but the open bar’s prepaid liquor was fueling fires in those still burning with discontent. Did I mention countries at war? Yes. I did.

The police were called again, by the party center staff. The paddy wagon arrived, too, and ALL would spend the night in jail.

Yes, that included US. On our wedding night. Yeah. My lady love’ll forgive me, won’t she? Yeah, right.

A kind jailor had pity and arranged for us to have a cell alone.

“Sounds romantic,” I chirped.

“In a sitcom, maybe,” she said. “Not so hot in real life. Don’t they have cameras in these things, now?” Not in the private cells, just the main holding cell we were told. Then, we were locked in.

Total privacy, kind of. No room service, though. We can live with that.

“At least it’s quiet.” I said.

She didn’t answer back, as the rustle of her white wedding dress accompanied the click of her wedding pumps, as she walked the small circuit of our “honeymoon suite,” with the open toilet. The facing cell was empty and the nearest others—we were in the ladies’ side—were a couple cells away.

Not exactly a plaza suite.

Her face was doing things that looked to be bad for me, so I braced for the abuse, as she finally opened her mouth.

“Ain’t this about a blip, baby?” She called me “baby,” that was good; and she guffawed, and snorted. Okay. Not attractive, but she’s all mine now, we’d signed the papers.

“Bleep yeah, it is.”

“Hate your family.”

“Hate yours, too.” We both laughed this time, and recounted the blow by blow of our uncouth nuptials. At least the bride didn’t get a broken nose; saw that on TV a few years back. Jeez, we’ll probably make the news as filler, too. Ah, well.

We sat back and tried to get comfortable, and then I kissed her, she kissed back, I kissed some more, then she pushed me back.

“Not here. We do not consummate our love in this place. Imagine telling junior, ‘Yes, we were in the pokey when we poked and made you.’ ”

“A kid, of ours? Probably’d love it and repeat it, often.” I laughed, and then shut up a long while, after the sharp look she gave me. After about ten minutes she spoke to me, her new spouse, again.

“Really think our kid wouldn’t be embarrassed to’ve been conceived in a jail conjugal, after a violent … wedding, like some stereotypical, ‘Brigadoon’-like, Scot Irish wedding?”

“We are Scot Irish, babe. Both sides.” We laughed again. Laughing was good, it wasn’t sex good. I could have sex with her just about anywhere, but, in here or out, despite no sex, laughing with her, with those gorgeous dimples, and talking with her was just as good, in its own special way.

“Doesn’t this ruin it all, though?” she asked. “Our memories and the wedding candids’ll be all mug shots or those cartoon fights of a dense cloud with only arms and legs sticking out.”

I was silent; long enough for her to look at me, wondering what was going on.

“None of this can ruin anything with us, baby. We’re married, and about five minutes after we get out of here, we’re consummating this sucker. Many times. To be certain it sticks forever. Right?”

“Right. To be certain it sticks. Forever.”

“Agreed. Besides, you’re my life’s companion, now. So, if it all end’s when the sun rises in the morning, this sexless time with you, as yours, is all I’ll ever really need. I’ll die with a contented smile on my face.”

The silly girl cried, I dried her tears with my discarded, tight cummerbund, and then we lay down together and talked and planned all night. It was perfect.

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