The plan was fool proof.
I picked up the dress – white lace and satin – and called the priest, well, six. That’s how many it took before I found a priest rogue enough to perform a Catholic ceremony in the dead of night.
All the man had to do was show up.
His bike leaned politely against the building as always. My knock echoed loudly only angering me more.
“Can I help you?” I stared at the woman peeking over his shoulder. “My wife and I were just leaving.” Rage burned through me.
That’s the last thing I remember.
Word Count: 98
Friday Fictioneers, many thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Click the link to read more.