Allison's Archives

I met god at a friend’s wedding. 

Disappointingly, god is not a woman. Even more disappointingly, god comes in the form of an ex-boyfriend. Which one does not matter—I sighed as an initial reaction all the same. 

Perhaps I should rewind a little and start by saying I was not in the mood for a wedding, which is another way of saying I was not in the mood for other people’s concept of forever and always. Forever and always, when displayed, behaves like expensive perfume—cloying at best; suffocating at worst. 

Still, there I was in a dress that would otherwise be stashed in the back of my closet because to refuse a wedding invitation is to imply that you do not believe in the future, or worse, that you do not believe in your friend. And when social bells ring and the happy couple has spent a preposterous amount on floral arrangements and a three-tiered cake, you pick one to believe in.

The weather was favorable and the venue emanated a five-figure rental value. I gave the perfunctory how have you been’s and smiles while trying to recall exactly what my friend and her to-be husband did for a living. The wedding was littered with people I had not seen in years, some of whom I can barely remember meeting. But no matter—the energies were high and synchronized partly thanks to the free-flow alcohol and smuggled-in cigarettes (at which I glared to be put down). The festivities paraded and waded until the heat of the sun had diminished into a preferred warmth, until the lights mysteriously flickered on. The newlyweds’ first dance had just concluded and there was no doubt that they had taken a handful of classes to achieve such mastery. The band marched on slow and the floor was open to all. I have never been much for dancing, what with my two left feet, and so while my table emptied to the rhythm, I found myself checking the time while a strangely familiar figure made home of the seat next to me. 

A low hello was bid. I often grant myself the luxury of forgetting that our circles of friends intertwine like those dreadful Venn diagrams they had us learn in high school. Always a huge overlapping area, which brought us to the unfortunate situation of the present. I do not respond; my hellos are reserved for people who have not yet shattered my worldview of love and violence. 

A how are you was introduced as a follow-up. I could no longer disregard his presence. I glanced out of my peripheral to validate that it really was him, that I was not being rude to a mere stranger. Of course it was my ex, I thought. It wasn’t surprising after all; we have all mistaken the ordinary for the divine at least once. It was impossible to discern whether god decided, for entertainment’s sake, to wear the skinsuit of my ex-boyfriend and crash a human wedding, or whether it truly was my ex in the flesh. Whoever it was, perhaps he was just trying to be courteous and civil; whoever it was, he has never answered my prayers, so why should I show him mercy? 

Social niceties got the best of me and I mumbled the usual string of acceptable answers, trying to keep the sourness within the folds of my tongue. Fine. Good. Busy. The liturgy of polite detachment. Bother somebody else, why don’t you. 

He mistook my reply as an invitation to converse and said that it’s nice to hear I’m doing well, despite my never mentioning the word “well” once. He went on, saying he was happy for our friend, and wasn’t it beautiful—this wedding? Didn’t it restore my faith? I whipped around in disbelief to a full receipt of his face. Faith in what? I wanted to ask. That two people can fall grandly into the delusion of forever? That florists can charge triple for peony arrangements? But I held back from giving him too much of a reaction, any more of me. Yes, yes it does, I said.

I stared in the face of god. God, who had the same mouth that once taught me desire can both bless and wound. I had hoped to see him a little unshaven, maybe even bitter about his tax bracket. Instead, he was radiant. This is the problem with running into god: You want to see them ruined so it would be easier to maintain disbelief. You want to see them flawed to know that they care for you because they are just like you. But there he was, glowing like a well-funded Renaissance painting. This is why religion is so durable, I thought. But really, his divinity expired the moment I stopped kneeling. There, at the banquet table, his halo diminished and I almost felt disappointed. What’s a world without gods, really? Even the terrible ones lend a hand to chaos, and things don’t change or happen at all without chaos. 

I was hoping the conversation would flame out like we did, but he didn’t let up. He asked why I wrote all those horrible things. I took a sip from my glass, unable to tell whether his question was sincere with worry or purposefully provoking. My eyes swept across the dance floor before I asked him why he thought they were horrible in the first place. How horrible can truths be? Do they wound more deeply than lies? 

This time, it was his glass that tipped back in one swift motion. He told me that I could have written things in a nicer light. I bit back by saying that I’d then be lying, and writers cannot lie because they will always be betrayed by the page. The music on the dance floor livened up then, infusing in me some kind of courage to confront god in all his infallibility. I reached for another sip to make the courage stay, not realizing that I had already emptied the glass with my previous swig. Thinking there is something where there is nothing can be cruel, but such rude awakenings can often be necessary.

I spoke about how I’ve told him, in so many prayers, that I wanted to be a muse, a journalist, a painter, a musician, a traveler, a poet, an actress, a linguist… Instead, he forsook me and made a lover out of me. This is on you, I said through gritted teeth. Not me. 

God did not know what to say. He stood up neatly, discreetly—and I hope defeatedly—and said to me: You never change. He lit a cigarette, still smoking after all these years, and he left. I was left wondering whether he meant it as criticism or advice. When I tried to pay witness to his exit, there was no trail to follow. Laughter swelled like organs and the music echoed against the rafters. The bride was now barefoot, the groom spinning her in a scene so ordinary that it glowed. The crowd was drunk and devoted, the couple bound and beloved.

My friend the bride waved at me. I waved back and thought about refilling my glass. I should have gone home then. Or I should have prayed for a love like hers to find me someday. 

But I stayed for the cake. And I’ve already prayed once. That was enough.