A few days ago, must have been the weekend, I walked out of my hotel room and heard a sort of chanting. There was a young man standing beside my door with a camcorder pointed down into the lounge area. I glanced over his shoulder and saw rows of dark haired heads, silent with happiness, watching a wedding ceremony.
I felt ashamed for peeking and went on my original track to the elevator; I hadn't been invited. Even though the wedding was occurring yards from my room, I felt like an intruder. For whatever reason, this couple had decided to profess their loyalty to each other at a hotel, on a busy street, with a gas station in front of it. I told myself this so I wouldn't feel bad for having seen what seemed like a sacred ceremony. If they had wanted it to be private I suppose they would have held it elsewhere.
I was done pondering this by the time the elevator got on the ground floor. Tucked in the back corner of the parking lot was a white limousine. It had white streamers hanging over the headlights like lazy eyelashes and blessings smeared on the windows.
I got in my car, relieved that I would miss the send-off.
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