His Mythical Woman

A cosmopolitan Beijing wedding. Though, curiously, many of the attendees speak a dialect of Korean. I piece it together as the bride proceeds to the stage. The mega-screen at the forefront of the room calls her the Chinese Flower of North Korea. Their leader, himself, calls her daughter.

He didn't warn me I was competing against a mythical woman.

Pictures flash across the room-length screen of his and her faces, and the loud speakers announce they are star crossed lovers. They shared an unlikely encounter at a bar. While I was adventuring at a river crossing.

This is a wedding. I am at his wedding. I sit and stand and clap. I smile. The bride dances in a petal white dress that flutters as he leads her across the stage, and the stage is large so that there is no end to their dancing.

No end. It keeps going. The source of my misery is not merciful. And no number of his strikes to my chest make it numb.

Their parents bless the union. I clap.

He kisses her. I smile.

I stand in line to congratulate the bride. She is vibrant warm and beautiful, and all other things we are told men want. Not flighty and 200 miles away when he is drinking his loneliness at a bar. I turn to congratulate her parents. The bride’s father has perceptive eyes. They are teary and they crinkle at the corners. He is a Chinese diplomat. He almost reads my grief. Of course, he is a diplomat.

“Congratulations.” I say.

I slip to the bathroom where the sinks are shared. I stare at the mirror and splash cool water where I am turning red. And as I dry my hands a tall man next to me inquires with interest, “Where are you from?” He asks in Korean and then he asks in Mandarin. I cannot recall if he came from one of the many North Korean tables.

We are both surprised when I blurt “I'm Russian” in the open, rounded Chinese of a clumsy American just learning Mandarin. As if I’m a school girl again learning the ropes. He wrinkles his nose because we both know I’m lying with that poor accent, and we almost share a laugh at the absurdity. His comes out an embarrassed cough and mine a weak exhale.

I made a mistake coming to this wedding, and my mountain of lies have collapsed in on me.

I give the tall man no more opportunity to learn my face, or to announce to the world that this sad American is here, wiping her tears at the communal bathroom sink. He sees the back of me.

Photo by Jairo Alzate on Unsplash

Author's note: Thank you so much for reading my draft! This story is posted under the "fiction" genre because I wanted the freedom to add this to a postcard series—snapshots of human connection in unexpected moments and places—while editing details for people's privacy and dramatizing certain elements.