This is the part where I tell you how handsome he is, your boyfriend, your soon-to-be husband. I don’t say this because he is or isn’t handsome. It is not about his six and a half feet tall. It isn’t about brown eyes or green eyes or the lazy way his lip falls open when he has something to say. This isn’t about sex appeal. This isn’t about the time you did or did not kiss me in the laundry room (depending on who is speaking; depending on who is listening). This is not about your long brown hair. Your Rome, Georgia accent you wanted me to train you out of. This is not about Yankee fixation on the wonders of the new south, the dirty south. This is not about you or me or the man who has you on your hands and knees. This is not about the threesome he hinted about that night on the couch, you sitting between us with your hand on both our knees. This is not about the Julia Roberts movie we made you turn off or the way suddenly I was in charge. This is not about you and it’s not about me, it’s not even about your boyfriend, however handsome he may be. This is about luck, the last three letters of the alphabet, the sound your mouth makes when it has something in it, and the things he doesn’t know.

Elizabeth J. Colen