muse:i do/not.

this really has been lurking around in my head for far too long. i think it maybe has died up there and left this rotting corpse behind.
muse:

i drop my mail unceremoniously on the bleak, grandiose, oak table. it lands with a soft swish, displacing a bit of dust. i cough a bit, batting at the air in a feeble attempt to try and settle my diaphragm. a few coughs and sneezes later, my chest finally complies. a small, rectangular, silvery envelope catches my eye. i snatch it from the middle of the heap and slide it open with practiced ease. from the jowls of the small beast, a small(er) square slips out. a marriage, it declares, in two weeks. i stare at the invitation confusedly, even more vexed as i spot the small check boxes for the choice of meat for dinner. i pick up the card from its resting place on my dusty table and turn it over. my stomach drops when i see the names. 

to be wedded, the square mumbles yet again, almost embarrassed. nikita and abigail. 

i look at the square confusedly for a second time, allowing my head to cock to the side as i tend to do. really? this particular wedding? i'm not sure if i can go. and by that, i don't mean physically able. it's all about being mentally and emotionally up to watching your best friend (who happens to be the groom, and maybe more than that) being tethered voluntarily to someone who you know (with bias) isn't good enough for him. 

but then, maybe that's why it's happening. 

i draw a box for myself, label it with turkey, and stuff the invitation back into its stately dressing. i almost forget to redeposit it into my mailbox the next day, remembering it only by the slight pang in my chest.

* * *

the day of the wedding comes far too soon and far too noisily. nikita's marriage is the buzz of the neighborhood. my friends next door (whom i have started to see far less of) wake me with the volume of their fussing. you should wear this, ginny says adamantly to her boyfriend. it'll make you look great. he disagrees angrily. my two cents is a pillow to the window. 

i don't move from my bed until around midday, when the buzz has finally died down. everyone is heading to the venue of the wedding, and i have yet to don any sort of decent clothing. i'm finally driven out of bed by an insistent ringing of my doorbell. the door swings open to reveal a very, very embarrassed nikita. he looks at me strangely, eyeing my boxers and t-shirt before pushing by me into my house. sure, come in, i call after him bitterly. i shut the door. nikita cards a hand through his hair before turning to face me. 

we have a turkey dinner for you, he finally says. i don't bat an eyelid. a few moments pass before he tries to get me to speak again. turkey, he repeats. you were the only one who requested turkey, and so we got one turkey plate for  you.

i blink at him, confused, before bumbling over to my refrigerator and retrieving a bottle of juice. that's what you came here to tell me? i ask, drinking the slightly acidic concoction. the slight burn in my throat doesn't really wake me up as much as i had hoped. 

nikita looks extremely uncomfortable before trying yet again to press on. not only that, he answers, but i was wondering if you're okay with this. with me getting married.  i stare at him before taking another swig of my juice. 

i'm fine, i say, plonking down the bottle with on the kitchen counter. it lands with a clink. it's your life, not mine. this earns me yet another strange look. what? i ask. it really is. i'm not here to tell you who will make you happy or not.

nikita sighs, moving to sit down in the chair next to me. look ajax, he says. i really don't know what we're getting at here, but i came to ask if you're going to be able to make it to my wedding. i'd really like for you to come.

of course, my brain doesn't really function at its full capacity wherever nikita is involved. i huff my agreement and tromp off to find my tuxedo. by the time i return downstairs, it's five minutes until go time and nikita has not budged. 

ready? he says, straightening his bow tie. i nod, fiddling with my own normal tie. you don't look like too much of a slob, he remarks, smirking a bit. i'm inclined to punch him playfully but i keep my limbs to myself. i know that if i even touch nikita, the whole wedding is off. we make it out the door of my house before nikita turns to me again. are you sure about this? he asks. i really want you to be okay with this. 

i've long learned to stop really feeling strongly about things, and i shrug. whatever, i say. abigail makes you really happy, and i have to accept that. nikita's hands fly to his hips. 

and what is that even supposed to mean? he asks, his voice sharp. how am i supposed to even think that you're okay with me getting married?

i know what game he's playing here. i think we learned about it our junior year in high school, when the states decided to flirt dangerously with the ussr in the world's most risky game of strip poker. the first one to remove all clothing lost. or something like that. brinksmanship was what our government teacher had said, trying to recover the class from the terrible analogy. we hadn't bothered listening after that.

but if it's brinksmanship that nikita wants, it's brinksmanship that he gets. or, at least my version of it. or, maybe not really brinksmanship. being a passive-aggressive person doesn't really inspire brinksmanship. or maybe it does. 

you're supposed to think that i'm okay with you getting married because i'm showing up to your wedding, i almost yell back, locking my door. i hate that you're paying me extra special attention. it's all because i told you that i liked you back in high school and we never really solved things!

and there, it's out in the open. the rotted cadaver of what nikita was trying to get me to talk about. i guess i struck preemptively and got naked first. no one's loss, really. nikita flushes, and suddenly stares at his feet. 

i guess that's what i wanted to talk with you about, he says, still finding the ground very interesting.