Slightly Married by Wendy Markham

with what?” Jack asks.
    His mother sends me a good-natured eye-roll. Men! “Busy with wedding plans,” she tells Jack. “What else?”
    “Why do we have to come up to Westchester for that?” Jack wants to know…which is exactly the question that’s on my mind, but I don’t dare voice it because I suspect I know the answer.
    “So that we can start looking at places for your reception,” Wilma informs us.
    Ah. I was right.
    Jack’s sisters are nodding. But of course. The reception. In Westchester.
    “Actually,” I say when Jack doesn’t jump in immediately—or thereafter, “we’re not sure where we want to get married yet.”
    That’s not a lie because officially, we aren’t sure.
    Privately, however, I’m sure.
    “So you were thinking of the city?” Emily asks, brightening. “Because we did an awesome shoot last summer at this gorgeous loft space downtown. I think it would be perfect for your wedding.”
    “Really? Because I thought you said it would be perfect for your wedding,” Rachel says dryly.
    “Yeah, well, it looks like I’m not having one anytime soon, so…” Emily shrugs and grandly informs me and Jack, “The loft is all yours.”
    “Gee, thanks.”
    Missing Jack’s sarcasm, Emily adds, “I have to warn you, though—you’ll pay a fortune to have it there.”
    “I bet Westchester is a lot cheaper,” Jeannie comments.
    “Not necessarily,” Rachel points out.
    “Well, Greg and I had our reception over in Yorktown Heights, and it wasn’t as bad as Bedford, or the city.”
    I wait for Jack to speak up and mention that upstate in Brookside, everything is much more affordable than Yorktown Heights or anywhere around here. But he says nothing at all. He’s just chomping away frantically at his mixed greens like a furtive rabbit determined to get back under the fence before the farmer shows up.
    “If Jack and Tracey want a wedding in Bedford or the city, they should have it,” Wilma declares, and still, Jack is maddeningly silent. “They should have their wedding wherever they want. After all, you only get married once.”
    Coming from her, those last five words seem to land in our midst like a bucket of rocks. Thud. Silence.
    We all know how Wilma’s one shot at marriage turned out. And that Wilma makes no secret of the fact that she wouldn’t be opposed to finding someone new, should the opportunity arise.
    Starting to feel more bummed than bridal, I look at Jack.
    He’s still intent on his salad.
    I look harder at him—glaring, if you will. I’m just trying to send him a signal. But I get the distinct impression that he’s deliberately ignoring me.
    You know, now is really not the best time for Wilma’s ironic statement to remind me that sometimes weddings don’t lead to happily ever after.
    Yes, I’m crazy about Jack. Yes, I’m optimistic about our future.
    But you know what? Sometimes, you do need words. I can’t help but wonder why my soon-to-be husband is less involved in this conversation than everyone else, including the formerly giddy couple seated at the next table—who, I notice, seem to have run out of things to say to each other and are now eavesdropping while toying with their crab cake and shrimp cocktail.
    Is it all that surprising that their conversation has stalled? Really, what is there to say to someone after thirty-five years together?
    My own parents have been married about thirty-eight now, and their dinner conversation is pretty much limited to “Hey, how come you shut the window? It’s a thousand degrees in here,” and “Are you sure this is really imported Asiago? Because it tastes like domestic Romano.” That sort of thing.
    Is that how it’s going to turn out for me and Jack?
    Does it happen to everyone?
    If you’re lucky enough to make it to thirty-five years and beyond, does the spark die a natural death? Are you reduced to just coexisting?
    I look at Jack. He’s thoughtfully eating a piece of tomato and doesn’t see me. Or maybe