The Ghost Bride
by Adam Casalino
June 1, 1952
Jonathan Lewis paced back and forth in his room. For the fifth time that morning, he checked himself in the mirror. The flower in his lapel was crooked. His hair wasn’t right. The suit felt baggy, then too tight. There wasn’t enough air in the room. Jonathan ran to the window and flew it open. It made him cold. His agony was saved by a knock at the door.
“Yes, come in.”
Michael, the best man, poked his head in. He smiled, stepped inside, and tried to reassure the groom. Jonathan shrugged and slumped down in a chair.
“The day’s finally here,” Jonathan said. “I don’t think I’m ready.”
“Of course you are,” Michael said. “You are Angela are made for each other.”
“I thought that once before.” Jonathan’s face grew dark.
Michael reached across and put a hand on his shoulder. “Stop that. The past is behind you. You deserve a new life, with Angela.”
The groom smiled weakly. “You’re right.” He stood up and straightened his jacket. “How do I look?”
“Like a champ.”