Ironically enough, the only one thing that wasn't difficult about your relationship with Buddy Israel was marrying him. It was merely a matter of picking up a silver fountain pen and slapping an indecipherable signature somewhere as the sound of noncommittal violins wafted through the annihilatingly bright summer sunshine. When you had stepped down the aisle only minutes ago and each smiling face you passed had fuelled the scream growing inside your chest, you had been sure you couldn't go through with it - yet now, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. The guests began to applaud, and they smiled, so you did too. You let your new husband pull you into his arms for the million-dollar-kiss that finally gave purpose to those three years of acting classes your parents had paid for.
You accepted congratulations on end, forgetting the names of all those "Italian friends" as quickly as they were ushered inside for the food and drinks, the best Las Vegas catering serving. You realised you might die if one more person referred to you as "Mrs. Israel". When your cheeks were sore from being pecked so much, you snuck off to hide by the back exit where the white-suited waiters were smoking, and your husband watched you go with his hands in his pockets. "So, you got hitched," one of the servers responded when you asked to steal a Marlboro from his pocket. The last time you smoked had been three years ago, modelling; your fiancé had made you promise. You wondered whether you'd be married forever.
"This doesn't have to change anything," Ivy explained when he steered you back inside. As the best man, he also held the dinner's first toast during which your husband made silent note of the cigarette smell and kissed the back of your left hand just below where the white-gold diamond ring graced a tensely white-knuckled finger. With him sitting next to you, you weren't allowed to cry like you wanted to. You weren't able to do anything you wanted to.
The first stray tunes of the Carpenters 'For all We Know' had you suffocating in a slow shuffle in the unyielding arms of the man you married, who had cast aside his blood red tie. When did it get so bad? The clammy palms went unmentioned until most of the remaining audience had occupied themselves enough for him to whisper in your ear, asking you why you did this. And seconds later: "I know they always let you, but try not to act spoiled." His voice was no colder than usual, yet stirred a revelation you had been fighting for a while now, fearful of the strength it would require to rebury the thought. But like one second could suffice to finally recognize the key point of an extremely intricate card trick, you understood that the hidden truth had always been right there under your nose.
You did not love Buddy Israel. All you ever did was wish for this particular illusion to dazzle you a little longer.