It was a dream of a wedding. Not a wedding of the real world where there is divided feelings, doubt, boredom, and dread. It was a dream wedding of beauty.
In the dream, she followed her best friend down the street. A playful chase. A destination on mind(more). A place was waiting for them. They were expected.
It was raining out, so hard that the dirt embedded in the asphalt floated to the surface of the puddles. The flooded streets offered the hem of her dress a drink, and at the hem the pink turned grey. The dress was a fine one. The first gown of her life! Though it was only a dream:
Pink satin. Stiff, luxuriously thick. A mermaid tail and fitted bodice from a 1950s designer, still famous even in the careless waking modern world. An old gown from days when evening wear was inspired by beaches.
In her dream, she knew her dress was finer than the pure white lace of her friend's wedding gown. The pink was a blush colour, by chance suiting her better than white suits any bride.
It was an occasion of beauty, pure beauty, one she she had never known in the waking, mortal world. In her dream she knew her beauty was not just the freedom to run in a dress. It was knowing she was looked at. Looked at in love, and envy - not of looks, but freedom. Love and envy of the freedom we are each born into, and can maintain with only the purest hope. Her dress was a dress of childhood. Pink that can get dirty easily.
There was no suggestion of grooms in the dream. Just women running toward whatever waited for them, something they laughed in anticipation of.(less)