Shit, I thought, as I looked down at him, kneeling. The stars in the night suddenly dissolved and everything become guttural, not ecstatic as I had imagined it in my head.
It was all perfect, all according to my carefully concocted plan. There was the mild night in a mid-summer dream, his tuxedo and the red of my dress after the formal, the stroll which would start out casually but also with the anticipation of an invitation. Hands clasped in possession across my waist. Laughter. Rubbing off the cherry of my lipstick from your mouth using your handkerchief after we kiss. Laughter. Your hands in possession of all my waste.
Names in candlelight. Names in flower buds. Names in star dust.
It was all according to my very own fucking plan.
Except for the first time I realised, this was never what I had wanted.
So be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.