August 2026 - Vol. 23, Issue 4

She said she would, but didn’t; he then looked at her in that way, the way a predator looks at its prey before denaturing – but she is neither beastly nor bothersome, craved only the company of a good person. They are merely two people hoping to keep one another from dying of loneliness – she often thought it was a small sacrifice of one’s freedom.

Collectively, three months from now, they were going to say words that will haunt them both, for the rest of their lives, she… “Yes,” and, he… “I do,” and every other word that came out of his fouled mouth convincing on-lookers he was truly meant for her, and she for him, that not belonging in each other’s arms was seen as a waste of sinful space, so he proceeded… and she tagged along by the waist.

She bought the obligatory long-flowing, off-white dress, because any other colour and any other style would be deemed disrespectful to their shared God, even though she didn’t believe in such a religious notion, thought it alien, as strange as finding out that he had hired out a suit which came with its obligatory companion… a cummerbund, and, even though he didn’t quite know what a cummerbund was, let alone, what to do with it, he talked about it like he was born with one.

Her mind went back…  a few months or more, to the rainy day they had shared a black and white movie, one which had actors looking deathly, their pallor so off, one might have thought them the living-dead on film; it was a time when women were tall as their men, and wore long, slim shimmering gowns made of silk, wearing their hair just below low-hanging earlobes attached to sparkling larger-than-life ear-pieces.

She was the ever-so, graceful attentive one, happened to notice in one of the scenes the lead actor wore something intimately strapped to his waist, made him look dashing; she didn’t give it a thought, only that she mentioned it in passing… that when she got serious with life and her future man-to-be, that he would be wearing one of those things that embraced a man’s midriff like an obsessed lover unable to let go. She had supposed her wandering words had made a great impact on her date, for that was the only thing making sense, and she knew it to be true as knowing it to be a plain fact.

Her instincts warned her he wasn’t sophisticated, nor did he come with lots of spending money, he was too shallow of mind to know what deep pockets were meant for; she knew, deep down, she would be repeating her mother’s life, even though her mother warned her not to ever marry, to never accept rides from men who love their cars more than they do their women.

She observed him as though he were a specimen in a laboratory experiment; when it came to wearing the cummerbund properly, he was frustratingly unsuccessful, placed the broad, pleated, dark material sash in the wrong place; it wasn’t a miniature waste-coat, nor a chest-piece; being a wise, young woman of the world, she knew where that thing belonged but remained silent until she could stand it no longer. As the days grew closer to the ‘event’ she felt more like a cummerbund than his woman, she was always keeping him seamlessly tidy between being a man one second to having small tantrums like a spoilt boy, the next; the longer she thought about it, the more she was convinced that she had been made his obligatory companion… a fleshy cummerbund holding his life seamlessly together. How she loathed the thought of being kept about his waist, so kept the image as far away as that part of her mind would allow.

It was just as well they had practised dress-ups until the early hours, and, even though she got her outfit right first-time, he failed too many times to mention, at least she knew beforehand, that he wasn’t much for knowing about sophisticated dress codes. She told him to go back to the store where he had hired his tuxedo, that she wasn’t about mothering him, nor teaching him fashion sense, that was the job of the sale’s clerk. She further advised him to ask the lively gentleman at the said store to give him a demonstration, told him to ask politely; her man begrudgingly nodded.

***

“Well… the history and main purpose of this particular clothing apparel originated in Persia, their word for it is: kamarband, when translated to English it equates to ‘waist wrapping’. It was the British military who took the idea and made it their own when they were placed in colonial lands, places so hot it would cook one’s brain to silly-putty; even the locals couldn’t tolerate the scorching high temperatures, so… in came the cummerbund, preferred over the heavy, cumbersome traditional waistcoats; of course, these days it’s a mandatory clothing item worn as part of the black-tie fraternity. Most wear it to create a smooth, polished appearance, makes for a seamless transition between one’s shirt and pants. You must remember… it’s always, and, I can’t stress it enough… always worn with the pleats facing up. In the good, old days, the folds were used for holding tickets and opera passes… Is that the reason you need one?”

“No.”

“Well… I had better show you the best way to put it on.”

“Well… Okay.”

“Firstly, it should comfortably rest at your waist, overlaying both your shirt and the pants’ waistband. Now we fasten at the back and you should be feeling snug, not overly tight; how’s that?”

“Well… quite fine.”

“Are you certain it’s comfortable, not too constricting?”

“No! It’s fine!”

“Well then… shall we wrap it up and call it a day?!”

“Yes… Absolutely.”

 ...

“Yes, I take thee for now and for all of eternity.” His words dripped with sweat, his brows drowned in beads of perspiration, she was somewhat calmer, though not altogether healthy looking, her pallor so off-colour she looked more at home amongst the Church’s grave-site; she at least, hoped to appear the opposite picture of her partner… so she hoped.

And, though her mind was busied elsewhere, her gaze fixated on the statue of doting Mother and baby, her right hand trembled nervously as it rested on the slight rise of her abdomen.

He thought of nothing but his get-away car with the words “Just Married” sprayed in bright red on a large placard secured in the back. She thought of Dante’s Nine Circles of Hell, how she had reached rock bottom; he smirked as though he knew what she was thinking, in his mind, life was one light-hearted joke, but she wasn’t part of it. Perhaps, just perhaps… she had succumbed to his dark charms, the way his eyes closed when they were intimate, holding onto sweaty hands while their eyes busied themselves with other couples’ romance, wishing they were like them, freshly minted in love. Maybe it was the way he cocked his head to one side, always the left, made her think of sinister things; didn’t the word for left in Latin mean sinister-side… Satan’s?

Her mind goes to their first date, how she ate his favourite… fried egg and bacon sandwich, without permission, the way his expression changed in an instant, made her feel lonelier than she had ever been in her entire life. He spent all his spare time fixing mechanical engines that had croaked more than one cared to take notice, except him. She spent most of her spare time watching him fixing and tinkering under vintage car hoods; on every other weekend he invited her to car-meets, she would smile and say “Yes!” while inside, she was dreading the day they would mingle with men that could have passed for his clones.

If she could, she would have listened to her gut-instincts, if time could be turned back to their first meeting at the local church picnic, she would be the first to say “NO THANKS!” It was the kind of gathering where the local preacher encouraged the young, single fertile women to talk to single fertile young men; if only mother had intervened on that day, but she was coincidentally stricken with a bad lower back episode; god has bigger, much worse plans for you dear… the words in her head taunt her, she shrugs them off, doesn’t believe in idle threats made by gods with a small ‘g’.  She noticed, while talking to others, he had already made his presentation as though she had no say in it, and when he grabbed her forcibly by the hand, and took her away from the group of young people, the preacher smiled like a Cheshire, did absolutely nothing but swing the rosary like a tail of a cat that had caught its prey.

He said he wanted her to be the first… to see his new speedy hot-rod, and, when he invited her to check it out, she said softly “no thanks,” that she had to go straight back home and take care of mother.

He proceeded with taking her to the dark end of the dusty, parking lot, had the audacity to delete her and her words, ignored the fact that she was softly sobbing, and, the second she took her eyes off him, he forced her in the back of the car where it was darker than a moonless night, wreaked of heavy shame, a place where nobody could hear her protest, stop the indignation which took place.

***

On a dark, wintry night, the baby finally arrived, and while she was thinking up a name, he was thinking of the lively gentleman who taught him how to wear a cummerbund properly…

In a dark, twisted mind, thoughts gathered, picking up speed, doing their usual rounds… What if he had made the wrong choice? What if on a dark, wintry night, they headed out for a picnic… him in his suit and cummerbund, she in her long-flowing, off-white wedding gown? What if mother and newborn never existed…?