Chocolate Wedding Cake

The ceremony must’ve flown by because I don’t remember it at all. Now I’m sitting at the “Mr & Mrs” table alone because my husband is off chatting with his frat brothers. They say every girl dreams about her wedding day, but I must be the exception. This day, and the months leading up to it, have been nothing but dreadful.

Things might’ve been enjoyable, if I chose to spend the rest of my life with someone who valued my opinion as much as his. But, alas, here we are gathered at a wedding with his decorations of choice, his food menu, his pastor, and at his dream venue. I’m not even wearing the dress I wanted.

The worst of all is our wedding cake. It’s chocolate on chocolate. What wedding cake is chocolate cake and chocolate icing? And, what makes it worse is the color scheme he so desperately wanted is blue and red. We might as well be at a Spider-Man themed kids party.

I’ve managed to keep a smile on my face this whole time, but I’m not sure I’m masking my disgust well.

I’m being called over to the cake table now. The chocolate on chocolate cake table. I told myself I was going to refuse to actually eat it. This is all so embarrassing.

Look at him enjoying himself. This day is about him, not us. The way he and his fraternity brothers act when they're together, makes me want to tell my grandmother to leave. Two different receptions would’ve been a good idea. One for reliving a college frat party, and the other to celebrate a wedding.

Walking to the cake table feels more real than walking down the aisle. He’s standing behind the cake with his stupid grin. So satisfied that he can tell his friends that this is his wedding, with his decorations, and his cake, and his new wife.

I make my way through the rows of tables and smile. I try making eye contact with the few people looking at me. Aunt Jenna, cousin Rick, my creepy co-worker invited out of obligation, everyone else is looking at my husband, the show runner. Others are deep in conversation with the people at their tables. The one job he felt wasn’t fun, and didn’t want to do himself, was creating the seating chart. So it became the only task he let me do on my own.

Do I love him? Yes, but…

I guess saying “but” in response to that question isn’t a good sign. I come around the cake table and stand next to him. Just one bite for the camera. One bite that’ll make it look like today is the happiest day of my life.

I’m smiling. I'm smiling and can’t wait for this to be over. I'm smiling for all the people watching, and the camera, and because this is what I wanted, right? To marry him.

Right?

I look at him, his eyes won’t break from the camera for mine. They will for a frat brother cheering for him while downing his tenth beer.

My hand is on top of his, and his is wrapped around a knife. We slice the cake together. He still hasn’t looked at me. We scoop a slice of the cake onto a plate. He’s in this moment alone and I’m just there to complete the image.

The photographer is clicking away. All I can hear is the clicking, all I can see is this stupid cake, all I can feel is my smile fading.

I let go of his hands, grab the back of his head and shove his face right into the chocolate cake. I hold him down and smother his face deep into the cake. Everyone is laughing and thinking it’s a playful wedding moment. I have no intentions of letting up until I feel his body go limp. I push harder and harder. Some of the laughing stops, then the clicking stops, and everyone’s realizing the moment is no longer cute.

I push and push. There’s a loud crack that must’ve been his nose, and his cries are muffled by the cake he’s inhaling. The room is quiet, watching me. Finally, it feels like my wedding.

My husband stops flailing his arms and his body goes limp. I let go of him and he falls to the ground covered in his chocolate cake and chocolate icing. I grab the slice we cut together and take a bite.

-

An alarm sounds and my eyes flip open. I’m in bed with my fiancé.

“Good morning, babe,” he says, “what were you dreaming about? You were smiling in your sleep.”

I lie, “I can’t remember."