The Aisle

The first chord of the Wedding March struck up and he turned to look down the aisle. His heart leapt. This was it, then. She was going to be his. All his. Just as on the day they first met, her beauty floored him. Just as it now floored the congregation, in collective gasp, though he knew for certain only he and he alone understood the extent to which this was not the product of some glorious happenstance meeting in the parental gene pool, but the physical amplification of an angelic heart. She began to step toward him. As her hip swayed and her breast heaved deep, the crowd, her dress, the cross, all disappeared, and he saw her stepping in fear and expectation toward his bed on that first night. He sighed. All these years later, after all those concentrated hours and days of wonder, he was still incapable of fathoming how their path had led from that night to this moment. He supposed he never would. She was close now. Close enough for her father to catch his eye. No one would ever be worthy of his daughter, naturally, but he’d never been left in doubt there were plenty worthier than him. Today, though, was different, and he looked upon him with a gleaming countenance. As father and daughter drew level she smiled, shyly. A shared moment, never to be forgotten. And then, without breaking step, she walked on by. She was going to be his. All his.