Marital Bitch Read Online Free PDF Page A

yelling at James. I can’t make out all of what she’s saying, but I get the distinct impression that she thinks we’re crazy—or drunk. She may think we’re too drunk to make such a choice. We could be.
    The next half an hour is a blur. We rush thro ugh the explanations everyone is demanding and we try to laugh off their concerns. James is the most relaxed. He hugs us both and says “it’s about damn time.”
    Darla is not pleased with his carefree attitude and she’s playing with her phone. Her inattention to us is worrying me. I can’t help but wonder what she’s doing over there; but being the bride is an exhausting process, even in a spur-of-the-moment Vegas ceremony. The Bridal Assistant talks me into the elbow-length white gloves and the veil. Brad opts for a blue-silver suit jacket. We laugh about our attire and joke that we’re business on the top with our wedding gear, and party on the bottom with our jeans.
    I pick out a cheap gold wedding band for Brad. It costs me a total of six dollars. Brad produces a Ring Pop for me and jokes that my ring will last longer than our marriage.
    Darla finally lightens up. She’s all smiles and taking a few sneak shots with her cell phone camera. I’m just drunk enough to not think anything of this. It seems harmless enough. Darla Frasier: 1; Colleen Frasier-soon-to-be-Patrick: 0.
    She’s playing on Facebook, but I figure I can convince her to remove it all later. It’s late here and even later back home. Nobody is going to s ee it anyway, I reason, except maybe for Lisa Wilks. Yes, yes, Lisa Wilks needs to see this.
    The minister directs us to our places. James walks me down the aisle, and half way through, he breaks out into the funky chicken, but stops quickly when his back starts to ache. For a fake wedding, James is really just too excited. Yeah, he’s drunk, but still. Nobody can keep a straight face. The corners of Brad’s eyes crinkle up in the corners and he can’t keep his eyes off of me. This is how I’ve always wished he’d look at me. It’s one of the best moments of my life.
    Brad and I choose to make up our own vows. We agree that it would be wrong, a slap in the face of the sanctity of marriage, to recite the traditional vows. Darla points out that getting married for fun is also a slap in the face of the sanctity of marriage. It’s a slippery slope. I remind myself to go to confession sometime this year. I’m informed that I’m up first. I’m not quite sure what to say, so I go with utterly ridiculous. That seems to be the theme of this entire wedding.
    “I, Colleen Frasier, sort of, kind of, take you, Bradley Patrick as my hubby. You’re like, my best friend, and my partner in crime. I promise to like, bring you beer and keep Tums and Beano on hand, and I promise to always be your best friend.” My eyes shift around nervously. I just rambled, perhaps, the absolute worst wedding vow in the history of marriage. Brad laughs and our audience is collectively dismayed that that was the best I could do, even for a fake bride. A way with words, I have not—and this is why I’m not a trial attorney.
    “I, Bradley Patrick, sort of, kind of, take you, Colleen Frasier to have and to grope from this day forward until whenever you break my hand. I promise to make you laugh and to shower at least weekly; and above all, I promise to always be your best friend.” The minister asks for objections and James scoffs, muttering something about regretting not having dragged us to Vegas sooner.
    “I now pronounce you, by the power invested in me by the state of Nevada, husband and wife,” the minister says. He looks like Elvis in a certain light, but not enough to be an impersonator, I don’t think. I reach out to hug Brad as a ‘thank you’. He leans in and grabs me by the waist with his left arm, pulling me full against his muscled frame. With his right hand, he holds my face and kisses me. His lips are rough and dry against mine—so very unlike the