A Matter of Getting There
  By M.J. Iuppa

Say it’s an hour before someone else’s wedding. There’s a park bench next to the bus stop, a young man lying with his head in his girl’s lap. Say the sun is too bright to see and they have been traveling in their Sunday apparel since early morning. Nothing moves quickly in June. He’s rumpled now, blazer unbuttoned–- her wide brim hat flops in the heat–- Gingerly, her hand strokes his head to stay cool. There’s little traffic today, Saturday before the holiday. The road heads in two directions; pools of water shimmer on pavement:

Who will jump first? Who will be left at the altar?

Say he’s fast asleep now. Her touch hypnotizes him.

She dreams of the gray shingled church with its red doors; spire bells ringing the hour. Above, the sharp caw of a single crow startles them. A crosstown bus rounds the corner; brakes gush to a halt.

Is this it?–- Every nerve blossoms. Heat.