Release Me

A short story

Image by giselaatje from Pixabay edited by me in Canva

We married so young, too young. The classic story. Idealists who met at a rally where we were two amongst a crowd trying to be heard over the din of society’s disapproval.

He was beautiful. Dark hair, olive green eyes, pale skin. Bold and daring and brilliant.

I was quiet and socially awkward. On that day, in the brittle cold, my frizzy blonde hair combined with a zit on my cheek the size of a small mountain to make me feel more awkward than usual.

Later, over hot cocoa, he told me I was beautiful. I believed him, somehow.

We tumbled into bed together. I’d never slept with anyone before, had carefully guarded my virginity as if it were a flower to be preserved, pressed between the pages of an old book. That afternoon it was as if I’d suddenly realized the flower was too beautiful to deserve such a morbid, final fate and I’d released it, to be crushed beneath our love. Its fragrance was heady around us, as our bodies somersaulted towards ecstasy like none I’d ever known.

We fell in love as our clothes fell to the floor.

Six months later we stood in a courtroom with our two best friends as witnesses. You’re too young, our parents had said. We scoffed at their cliched warnings. What did they know of love? Both sets divorced multiple times, not…