By Antariksha Wright
I need to scratch an itch, she thought, eyes on the diamond glinting under cathedral lights.
His vows droned on, honeyed words against her skin. He rubbed her hand, and she smiled (sugar for the congregation). The lie crept up her spine, making her stiffen: an itch like buried glass. Scratch it, and she’d spill everything.
His fingers tightened. Hers twitched. She could run. She could stay.
The groom smiled, dulcetly in the dark. She smiled back.
A scratch satisfied is relief, is ruin, is truth.
So she stayed. And the itch, like glass dust over her sugar, swirled in deeper.
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