It was a cool night. The sun lent its light to the moon, which bore down weak rays visible only in the inky black darkness befitting a time near midnight. Four girls having a leisurely stroll down the road, taking time off algebra, lecture notes and stuffy university hostel rooms for jokes, gossip and heart-to-heart conversations.
“So,” one of the girls ventured, “who, among us four, will get married first?”
Laughter ensued: we pointed fingers at one another, creating wild theories and producing elusive answers. We were seven years younger then, harbouring romantic fantasies and intimate secrets known only to our teenage-cum-young-adult selves.
But I think we got it right that night.
Yesterday, I attended her wedding.
Looking at her lighting up the room in her resplendent white gown and perfectly coiffed hair, taking small dainty steps akin to a pixie’s graceful dance… it was difficult to ignore the pockets of happiness and nostalgia permeating the atmosphere, like an infinite supply of yesterday’s bubble wraps that seemingly could go on popping merrily forever and ever.
“Teeheehee. This is my husband,” she winked shyly at me while we were taking pictures together on the dais.
Damn, we have come a long way, have we not?
To top it all off, I watched a bridesmaid fiddling with her 27 dresses and fighting off her suitor’s charming smile on TV that same night, and ended up feeling even more sorry for myself.