The day I went to get divorced, dressed as a bride.
When my husband announced that he wanted a divorce, I went straight to the wardrobe and pulled out my wedding gown.
What on earth are you doing? he asked, his face a picture of concern.
Im wearing this to court, I replied, giving my dress a brisk shake to rid it of its years of dust.
Have you lost your senses? You cant show up for a divorce dressed as a bride!
Oh, I most certainly can. And youll be wearing your wedding suit. If you made all those promises of undying love in that suit, you can end them in it too.
He opened his mouth to argue but no sound came, his mind clearly running out of reasonable objections. Within twenty minutes, he was grumbling at the back of the cupboard, searching for his tuxedo.
When we arrived at the courthouse, the security guard looked as if she might faint. One woman called out, Congratulations! only to be nudged by her friend who whispered, You fool, theyre getting divorced!
The judge nearly toppled from his chair as we entered: me in my billowing white dress, veil and all; him immaculate in dinner jacket, bow tie, and polished Oxford shoes.
Madam, the judge said, trying to keep a straight face, may I ask why youre dressed as a bride?
Because, Your Honour, I replied with as much dignity as I could muster, this man vowed till death do us part while dressed just so. As death hasnt parted us, but he wishes to break that promise, I want him to do it with the same sight before him as when he made it.
My husband looked at me, his eyes glistening.
I never lied to you. I truly loved you on that day, he said.
And now? I whispered, feeling my voice waver.
The judge cleared his throat. I think it best we pause for half an hour. Go for a walk, have a talk. If you both return, dressed just so and still intent on ending things, I will continue. But something tells me that two people who turn up like this still have a great deal left to say.
We stepped out into the corridor. He straightened my veil, which was askew.
You look beautiful, he told me. Just as you did that day.
And you look very fine yourself, I admitted. Though you are a complete idiot.
There we stood, attired for a wedding, lost in the halls of justice, uncertain what to do next.
What if… he ventured timidly, instead of divorcing, we track down some wedding cake and remind ourselves why we ever married in the first place?
Perhaps true love is this: turning up for a divorce dressed as you did when you wedor perhaps, we are just a melodramatic pair who never really learned to do anything by halves.
