Richard sat on the edge of the bed, sulking. Amber made a production of toying with the sash on her negligee, hoping to improve his mood. It didn’t help.
Finally, she sat down next to him and took his hand, “C’mon, it’s not that bad.” He just stared at his feet, so she tried changing the subject. “It was a beautiful wedding, wasn’t it? You looked great in your tuxedo.”
That didn’t work either. “It is too that bad,” Richard whined, “In less than an hour I’m going to be dead.” He kicked at the dust ruffle, venting his annoyance.
Amber sighed. Her married friends had warned her that this might happen. The boys always sought to impress the girls with pledges of a traditional wedding, but when it came time for the consummation, many of them tried to backtrack on their promises. In the boys’ defense, the famines of the last ice age were now 11,000 years in the past, and if the two nearby supermarkets weren’t enough, these days an expectant mother could order groceries online and have them delivered by drone, so it was no longer necessary to kill the male after mating in order to use him as nourishment during the nine months of gestation. But regardless, this was the way things were done. The tradition was part of their heritage, and Amber was an old-fashioned kind of girl.
#
Back when Amber first brought up the idea of marriage, Richard’s response had been only lukewarm. But she kept at it and his enthusiasm grew. They decided that as soon as Richard finished his MBA, they would tie the knot.
Once Richard was fully on board, Amber began to work on the details. He was happy with the quaint church she selected, and he especially liked her suggestion of a horse-drawn carriage instead of a limo. He was less enthusiastic when she told him she wanted to follow the conventional script for the wedding night too.
“But if we don’t do it,” she explained, “everyone will think you’re gay.” This was true. All older men were assumed to be gay – historically, they were the only ones who didn’t have to provide for an impregnated mate. And though there were lots of wives who, for one reason or another, didn’t slaughter their husbands on their wedding nights, this was considered an “alternative” lifestyle, and fueled the rumor mills of many communities.
Richard finally gave in and agreed to Amber’s request. The wedding was beautiful. Amber was radiant in white. Bouquet and garter were thrown and caught. Everyone cut a rug for the chicken dance.
And now it was time for the final two nuptial acts. As Amber’s friends had also explained, she didn’t really need to worry about Richard changing his mind or getting cold feet: in the end, the men all wanted sex badly enough to ignore the consequences.
Afterwards, with Richard snoring beside her, Amber reached to the nightstand for the blade her mother had given her, the same blade that had dispatched Amber’s father. Now impregnated, and capping off a perfect wedding, she slit Richard’s throat.
After some brief gurgling, he went silent. Amber took the bloody bed sheets and hung them out the window. Below, the revelers cheered. The proud new wife smiled and waved.
15 minutes later the charcutiers arrived to take the body away for dressing and curing. Of course, that was all ceremonial. No one really ate their husbands anymore. Well, almost no one. Amber had heard that there were some places up in the hills where they still followed that part of the tradition. She wrinkled her nose thinking about it. “Those people,” she snorted, “are crazy.”
—
Father of three and husband of one, Todd Wells plays upright bass in a rockabilly band, hosts international visitors through US Department of State exchange programs, and enjoys being patted down by TSA personnel at Midway and O’Hare airports. He writes about all of those things at traveldiaryofamadman.com.
Guess Amber is just an old-fashioned girl. Good absurdist satire.
Good one, Todd! I snorted at the reference to wedding guests doing the chicken dance. I love it when something in a story makes me snort.