As the sun sets westwards so does the intended spouse. She walks down Mulberry St, away from Canal, in fairly white sandals while having the occasional ‘before marriage’ cigarette. She walks alone. Walking at a pace that isn’t ‘normal’, but not fast either, almost as if she has a place to be but doesn’t want to make an appearance. She exhales a smoke, thicker than usual as she passes by me. Maybe she’s nervous, happy or a new member of the ‘run away bride’ committee, but a tear is seen running down, tracing her high cheeks.
She holds the right side of her dress up as she uses her left hand to smoke leaving the end of her dress to either drag or float; almost like her marriage.