PROMPT: You’re looking down through the skylight as chefs prepare dinner for your ex-fiancé’s wedding.

RED RIBS

The pain. It’s there but I don’t acknowledge it. I let it feast upon all that makes me but I don’t acknowledge it. No, never. Burn yourself with the oil. Ray - stop. Don’t think like that. But burn yourself. Accidentally. Oops. No, stop.

I hear a chattering of the knees. “Hurry up – it’s freezing in here” a voice says. “I said hurry up!” That couldn’t be her. But it is. It couldn’t be. There she is. Clad in an elegant rosemary gown, she stands facing the door, poised and dignified. Her tone is thick with the controlling affect I always knew she possessed - though she never showed it. No, she was a talented old witch who knew how to put on a persona, to get what she wanted. She was a faker, that's for sure.

The minutes pass by and the fries sizzle under the golden oil louder and louder. Aren’t they done already? The apples are cored, skinned and sliced – they remind me of the pain I should be feeling. I am not feeling.

I feel nothing.

Chefs run quickly throughout the metal hallways and to their personal areas. No time for fun, no time for laughing. The mom wants it done now, so it shall be completed as soon as humanly possible. If she could eliminate all possibilities of human error throughout the ordeal these chefs would have been thrown to the curb months ago. Sometimes perfection is the enemy of beauty in the world. Oh Ruth.

A draft of heat stings my face and I feel the knot of a thick, malleable steel wrench, it’s coiling form even tighter in my stomach. I observe a single chef down below through the metal shafts. Beads of sweat drip hastily from her forehead. She carelessly wipes them away with the sleeve of her apron, though carefully enough not to contaminate the food with her diligence. She takes to the wooden spoon and stirs a bit, adds some small green fragments of a vegetable and then stirs again, adding more salt this time. The pot steaming next to her looks like a buttery, cream filling to some pastry. The sweet smell of the treats stab my stomach like a poignant blade. This should have been mine.

All of a sudden I hear a squeak behind me. I anxiously turn to face a small brown mouse scampering hastily across the metal surface. My once debilitating fear of rodents does not faze me now. Not in this moment. I shift my attention back to the kitchen where Ruth is back, demanding the chefs move faster.

Watching the painful showing of what should have been the preparation to my wedding is emotionally draining, yet fascinatingly addictive. I have to pry my self away, strain my neck to the other side and turn away quickly to get myself to leave. Rip the bandage off. On my way out, I try and keep the squeaking to a minimum, but I’m not done yet. I must have taken a wrong turn, for my hand falls upon a thick, sharp cross metal section of an opening. Through the metal wire-like configuration, is a room. A lovely room really. Upon a pastel purple dresser sits a fitting oval mirror, adorned with what appears to be elegant christmas lights. There is a woman, perhaps one of the bridesmaids, sitting at the dresser with an older women standing behind her, toying with her thick locks. Her facial features are unapparent, for she is facing the other way, but her slightly withered posture conveys she is venturing into the realm of her later years.

The older woman adds one last component to the woman’s hair style and steps away. Her hair is the most magnificent thing I’ve seen in a while. Her golden locks pulled and elongated every which way to form a large, elaborate, bun. Around the bun is a neatly braided design, which shelters a couple loose curls. One of such perfection certainly assures their presence. Two more curls dangle to the sides of her face, in front of her ears. I find myself memorized by the entirety of the scene and how hair can be crafted into something so blatantly romantic. She is beautiful.

The older woman takes the newly adorned bride by her hands, gently pulling to stands her up. She lovingly admires her face, her eyes, and her masterpiece of a hair style. The bride gazes into the mirror before embracing the craftswoman. It is only when she breaks free from her embrace and turns to face me that my breath is knocked helplessly from my grasp.

Like my bride-to-be was knocked out of my grasp so long ago.

I am not breathing.

I do not have her.

I can not breathe.

I can not have her.

She is beautiful.

I can not love her.

She is not mine.