November Wedding Trudge
Written 1/26/26
An extra short piece on Ruslana's feelings, or lack thereof, on the day of her marriage to Emile.
!!! Content warning: !!!
The usual mean thoughts (ableist, fatphobic) towards Emile that you can come to expect from Ruslana, although it's less heavy in this one.
Ruslana sat before an antique vanity, shivering under a dress of cheap satin and white feather lining that already littered the floor of the cramped dressing room. Her curly blonde hair was braided and tied into the neatest bun she could manage. Fixing a few spirals that had come loose, she had a few minutes alone to reflect.
I'm really doing this. I'm getting married. How was she supposed to feel? Nervous? Excited? When she looked inside, she only noticed a dull ache that made her run out again, trying to push it down. It wasn't that she felt too young to marry; her mother would've scoffed at the idea of a woman doing it as late as thirty-three. And it wasn't that she was getting tied to some far-away prince with power and demands. Emile was humble in every regard but his money. Maybe that was the tragedy. She thought back to their first date and the years of awkward, off-and-on friendship that followed. The next thing she knew, Emile was living in her apartment, utterly jobless and bandless. She cooked for him anyway, listening to his stories of woe when she could. Mostly, though, she merely tolerated him, appreciating his arms-length company at best.
The "proposal" was where things got hazy. It was only a few weeks ago, and yet the most she could remember was them sitting in the living room with a thick layer of sleepiness and the question "What if we got married?" in the air. Yes. It would make things easier- less taxes, a single account for money, etcetera. But was Emile really the person she wanted to settle down with? Did she even want to settle down with anyone? She gave the answer a day to come to her, then three days, then a week. Emile, however, had his mind made up and it was too late to go back on her word.
Too late. The words rang in Ruslana's ears as her eyes met the cold blue ones in the mirror. The rouge on her cheeks and subtle white and blue eyeshadow couldn't disguise the lack of passion behind those eyes.
Unable to look a second longer, she took a deep breath and stood up from the chair.
~~~
The old church floor creaked with each step as she walked out of the darkness and towards the pulpit, a feather-lined robe trailing behind her. Dusty light fell from the vast windows to the rows of wooden pews, all empty save for an old couple who lived on that same beach, their silent grandson, and a skinny middle-aged man that was hired to clean the building beforehand. The secluded location, the sparse white garlands lining the pathway, and the minimal strangers for attendees. Emile didn't know what he wanted and didn't have any family, so all of these things were all requested by her. Why, then, did she feel an ache of disappointment looking at it? Why did she expect more?
Eventually, Emile turned to meet her, his solemn eyes growing wide. He wore a plain dark gray suit, bought for the occasion and almost covering up his chubby figure. They didn't have time to cut his hair which hung in messy waves to his shoulders. But he was otherwise well-kept, like an obedient boy at a church service.
An obedient boy that was going to be her husband.
She was glad that she wasn't expected to smile.
The elderly preacher, like the attendees, was unfamiliar to both of them. He gave a generic speech in a gravely monotone, each pause seeming to suffocate the room. Ruslana's gaze gradually lowered, watching Emile's fingers anxiously curl and uncurl at the bottom of his jacket.
"Emile Duncan," the preacher finally said, "Do you take this woman here to be your wife?"
She looked back up again in time to see Emile raise his round chin, taking a deep breath.
"I do," he stated in that thick drawl before tucking his chin back sheepishly.
"And Ruslana Preobrazhensky..." She turned to the preacher who pronounced her name wrong, finally feeling something in the weight of the silence that followed, "Do you take this man to be your husband?"
She hesitated, the two words catching in her throat for a horrible moment. Too late. The thought echoed in her head again. She had no good reason to turn away after all the planning and reserving. But it won't matter, she also tried to reassure herself. This was Emile who couldn't tie down a lame dog. Simple, forgetful Emile, who offered stability yet the chance to leave any time she wanted... right?
Just say it. She slowly closed her eyes, imagining not the man before her but a modest little house in a neighborhood. Inside that, a soft bed facing a vast wardrobe. And inside that, a blue cotton dress with a ribbon in the back.
"I do."
And when the preacher gave them permission, Emile closed his eyes and leaned forward. He had nervously asked her for a kiss a few times since the engagement. "So I can practice," he always said. She gave him the same kind now as every time before- light, basic, noncommittal. Briefly his plump lips dwarfed hers and she caught a faint whiff of sweat. But it was done. She was done.
They pulled away from each other, still holding hands. The crowd of four gave a half-hearted applause, and the newlyweds walked slowly back down the aisle. The groom looked ahead with a soft smile. The bride appeared more solemn, her half-closed eyes on her feet and her mind somewhere else.
What am I gaining from this, and what am I losing?