if that's what it takes

She knew it was over when he tried for a whole minute after she said stop to coax the spoon into her closed mouth, that morning.

Later, the former maid of honor raised her glass while someone strummed a banjo, and told Anny that she appreciated that she had “come to her own truth.” Anny had a little piece of black and red tulle sticking out of her hair; her dress was black, white, and red, and some of the more traditionally minded guests said it was a sign.

How did this happen?

Picture this. J.J., dressed in white, with his chopped black hair and matching blue eyes and vest, stood on the steps above the street; around him were like-dressed men, his groomsmen; the guests were flocking the streets (this was a huge wedding) and he stood above them looking out, actually holding hands with David Lee and Anthony, two groomsmen, and saying "I feel luckier right now than I've ever felt in my life."

Meanwhile down the street was Anny herself, blonde hair short and straight, face wide, eyes black rimmed and vaguely Oriental. She had on the veil, complete with the sprig of tulle, and the dress, white and billowy with too-tight black sleeves, the tightness being the second sign that it was over.

She was alone, standing on the crowds' fringes, and she could see J.J. and his white-
suited groomsmen in a messy triangle on the church steps. Out this far most of the crowd didn't know she was the bride and left her alone. Those who did said later that she looked "busy" and left her alone also.

Next scene is of her running - just booking it in the other direction, veil and bulbous skirt streaming behind her, black almond eyes wide and turning back to make sure she wasn't being followed, even as she thought the words "and she never looked back."

Really though she just tore away from there, down the street, while J.J. looked on, held hands, and had tears in his eyes.

Where did she go?

The reception was going to be at a bar on the other side of town; the band was booked and actually there now, hanging out on the couches and pretending to soundcheck. Anny's aunt was the owner; the bar was converted from an old house, so there were high ceilings and bay windows and lots of rooms. The actual bar part was in the center of the old living room, and Harriet stood in it now, plumply wiping glasses clean and hanging them from their stems above her head. Through a curtained doorway sat the guys of Coxswain!, a local band with sufficient noise and beats to keep the crowd dancing.

Anny, out of breath and sweating, and wondering if this was even slightly appropriate, spread the curtains and poked in her head.

“If you guys haven’t started yet,” she said, “is it okay to hang out here? Or should I go find the party somewhere else?”

They looked at each other, the two guys, the third one being MIA, and said, “No, here’s fine.”

“Anny,” Harriet disapproved through the doorway. “This is absurd. I’m not making you any drinks.”

Later the place filled up; Miranda, the MOH, in her black dress and red sash, other friends, some family, miscellaneous guests. At one point after the band played they were hanging out on the deck, a two-leveled, screened-in affair, on which Anny stood, or rather fell over, talking to Miranda and Eric, and singer.

“I mean,” she said, most of her weight on the railing, “I suppose—I’m just not sure
whether to live in Brooklyn, South Bend or Atlanta.”

“Those are all really different cities, Anna,” said Eric into his cigarette.

Miranda was tan and brunette, and pretty, and had a lazy eye, which kept lolling down to her martini. The other one rested firmly on Anny.

“Yeah but,” she said, “that would be great if you lived in Atlanta. We’d see each other all the time.”

Anny lurched sideways, and her lowball crashed to the ground. Earlier Harriet had rescinded her threat and made her something mint chocolate liqueur-flavored.

“If you’re going to drink at a time like this, you’ll at least do it under my watch,” she’d said.

“Should I still be wearing this?” Anny said now.

In the other room with the couches sat J.J. and D.L. and Anthony.

“It’s just that—I don’t know what this means,” he said.

When it got too buggy despite the screens the porch people came in and surrounded the bar, and that’s when the toasting started.

Miranda, who had the lazy eye and was a lounge singer, sang her toast of appreciate to Anny, “for having come to her own truth.” Anny was grateful for the support but didn’t understand the word “appreciate,” which implied that Miranda somehow benefited.

Eric gave her a toast too, which was inappropriate as it was mostly about how now she was single and still hot, and in the couch room J.J. put his face in his hands.

The third member of Coxswain!, who was tall and easily distracted, drifted into the couch room. He sat across from the triad of groomsmen and lit a cigarette.
"What's the deal, man," he said amiably.

"She's gone," said J.J. "I mean, she's here, but she skipped out on the wedding. But
we're still having the reception."

The third member nodded. The smoke produced during this motion came in zigzags.

Anny threw up under the railing, having forgotten about the screen, which was now a filter, of sorts. The reception was winding down.

She remembered the hours of indecision, and the split second it took to start running. She threw up again when she remembered running.

"J.J. is still here?" she blurted out, to no one, and stood up.

J.J. was gone, said Harriet, cheeks bobbing as she replaced another clean glass
overhead.

"What did I do?" said Anny.

What did she do?