The Missing Bride: a cellphone novel by Alysse Aallyn

Chapter 12 – Dreams Multiply Enigmas

Somehow I became convinced that
Mirabel was dead – murdered by
Lord Verne – he must have done it because
I was his perfect alibi.

If I stayed here
I’d be his Mirabel forever – in my dream I
Fled through shattered French windows where
Sheer white curtains blew across my face and
Danced like wraiths, daring my embrace.
I burst out to a stone terrace littered
With the broken glass
Of Piper Heidseck bottles – picked my way
Between the broken statues – horny Pan

Whose face had split, where cupids gaped with
Fractured mouths, Vulcan lobbing
Stone pineapples down the mossy garden steps.
Pursued by something
Too terrifying to look behind and see
I saw the shadow of
A naked man with antlers.
At least the distant view
Was glorious – pond encircling island
Ornamented by gazebo – forests crowned
By snowy mountains.

Surely he could not pursue me here.
Something amiss about this lighting –
Bleached too white – bad weather or
Apocalypse; eclipse or
World’s end? I can always revert to
The “helpless bystander” dilemmas of childhood –
Or force myself awake.
Dreams multiply enigmas –

I can’t leave Mirabel
Either because she’s in danger or
I was. In the mirror I’m
Richenda Marshott complete with morning mouth –
Sunlight exacerbates a hangover –
Not from overdrinking but
From over-dreaming.
Verne’s door was closed –
It would be awkward if I’d killed him
With my Benedryl
But I refused to check. Men
Should not be so dangerous.

Mirabel had not shown up so
I controlled the empty kitchen.
Some bad person – probably myself –
Left out the cake – stiff and
Ruined now – cardboard sugar
Which I guess it always was.
Tossed that out,
Put the last espresso in the
Microwave and
Opened cabinets sadly.

Here’s the place where guests could
Unpack clothes; Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Empty, empty, empty.
The front door unclicked –
I jumped so hard
I banged my head.
“Ow!”
And Verne cried
“Breakfast!”

I hadn’t killed him after all. Seems
I’m the one who overslept. His story was:
“I haven’t slept so well in ages. What was
That stuff?” he
Eyed my mug with disapproval.
“You can’t drink yesterday’s.”
Lords can’t comprehend
The hoi polloi.

“I brought everything.” He went on,
Impossibly cheerful
Considering yesterday.
Waffles, eggs, fruit.
Coffee. No milk?
“It’s OK,” I said to his
Self-recriminating face
“I noticed you have ice cream.”

Vanilla works as well as milk or
Even better.
“Mirabel never drank milk,” said Verne.
“She says it makes cowbones
And soy makes man-boobs.”
She would say that.
Charming, charming Mirabel.

“I drink oat milk,” I told him
Snootily. One-upping’s such
An endless game. But when he sighed
I grabbed his sleeve –
“Ice cream is better.”
Hard to one-up when one is
Drooling. This is how one’s
Compromised.