Cold Feet
Written by: tylerbrainerd
He sat, head halo’d in wispy smoke, and considered the stacks of brochures in front of him. His eyes panned side to side over the bright colors, pupils as glazed as the glossy photos on the brochures. He only had to choose a location and a hotel, but none stood out from the others.
Pastel walls and patterned bedspreads, with off white pillow cases, all surrounded by cheap and indistinct artwork and uniform furniture. What possible attraction was he supposed to feel towards any of that? Each hotel was just a different amalgation of the same parts, and each location was only a vague promise of formulaic tourist experiences, set with a different exotic background and wardrobe.
Idly, his fingers drummed at the underside of the table, and he took a deep drag off his cigarette, kicking the ashes off with a flick of his finger. The movement caught his own eye, and he looked at his fingers, and thought about her fingers in his. He saw her lithe joints, as the smooth skin traced the back of his hand and the glint of light reflecting off the stone in the ring.
And he wondered. He wondered if he was really ready to be married, to be an equal in matrimony. He wondered if he could handle it. He wondered if his dad was proud of him, or just merely placated at his choices. He wondered if, or when, he ought to consider his life successful. He wondered, more then anything, what choice would make his wife to-be happiest; Florida, Hawaii, or England. Or Paris. Or… He wondered.
He smashed the cigarette down in the ash tray and ran his hand through his hair. How much did it matter, this far along in the proceedings, whether he felt prepared or not.
