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Mason hummed against my ass cheeks.
“And the part that covered my breasts was just a feather each. One fanned feather for my right breast, one for the left.”
I yelped when Mason’s teeth sank into me.
“I said I had to wear my silver pasties with it and you said I would have to do no such thing.”
Mason laid his cheek against my ass and walked his fingers between freckles on the backs of my thighs. I was beginning to like the lie. Maybe that was why I said I’d tell him about our wedding. Because I liked lies. Loved lies. Because a fantasy could be real if two people believed it.
“Yeah, the owner of that shitty chapel took one look at us, you in a bow tie, shamrock underwear, and nothing else, and me looking like a witch who’d been stripped naked, had feathers thrown over her, and was just awaiting the tar, and said, ‘No. Hell no.’”
Mason had moved down the bed. His toes were by my head. My toes were in his mouth. I squirmed as he laughed.
“So we had the choice to change into clothes they had at the chapel—like this shitty Marilyn Monroe polyester dress and one of those tuxes that are really just a printed t-shirt, I’m pretty sure they were just left behind by some couple sometime in the last three decades—or bribe the Elvis priest into marrying us outside the chapel.”
“We obviously just changed,” Mason said, and I swatted at his ass.
“We didn’t have any cash so we offered Elvis an Eiffel Tower if he married us beneath the Eiffel Tower,” I said, grinning at the image of it.
Mason twisted toward me. I rolled onto my side myself to stare down the length of our bodies at him.
“An Eiffel Tower?” he asked.
I found myself no longer afraid for him to see my eyes. I didn’t think he could see the lies there anymore. Because I believed it now. I wanted it now, this wedding I was writing. Besides, who was there to tell me I was wrong? Who was there to say that this was not exactly what happened?
I held up one hand, said, “This is you,” held up another hand, said, “This is Elvis,” and extending my thumbs between my peaked fingers, laughed and said, “And this is me.”
“An Eiffel Tower,” Mason repeated, awe in his voice.
I wiggled my toes in his face.
“Anyway, we dragged some poor Midwest tourist who had too many Mai Tais at Caesar’s Palace and passed out at the fountains to be our witness and we said our vows, said our ‘I do’s’, and kissed to seal the deal beneath the twinkling lights of fake Paris.”
I said Paris like the French and flicked my wrist. I smiled down at Mason, who was running his palm up and down the length of my thigh. His eyes were on my skin, focused. Like he was sanding a piece of rough wood.
“And our vows?”
His eyes were hesitant as he lifted them up to meet mine.
“Do you remember anything that we said?”
I sighed. Stared briefly up at the bars of light across the ceiling.
“I mean, we were really drunk,” I said.
“Sure,” Mason said. “Yeah, yeah, of course.”
He was kissing my knees. I was a little kid with scraped knees and he was kissing them. Kissing them better. One. And then the other.
“I think yours were better than mine,” I said.
Mason gazed up at me over the gentle curve of my naked hip.
“You might be remembering that wrong,” he said.
I shook my head. Laughed softly.
“You always seemed to promise more,” I said.
