The ring exchange was awkward. He forced the band onto her finger so impatiently it pinched. María felt a sting, but she kept the perfect smile she had practiced in the mirror, the one every bride is taught to wear no matter what she’s feeling.
When the priest pronounced them husband and wife, Alejandro kissed her like a formality. A quick peck. Then he turned and started walking toward the exit without waiting for her.
María had to jog a little to catch up.
Outside, rice and petals rained down. Applause filled the atrium. The town cheered, clinging desperately to the story it wanted: beautiful bride, perfect marriage, a new beginning.
The photographer stopped them in front of the church façade.
“Just a couple photos,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “It’s the best light of the day.”
Alejandro sighed loudly and loosened his tie. His eyes scanned for a waiter like he needed a drink more than oxygen.
“That’s enough, isn’t it?” he slurred, loud enough for both families to hear. “I’m thirsty. It’s devilishly hot.”
María’s mother fanned herself faster, pretending not to notice. In San Miguel, you learn how to swallow discomfort with grace.
The photographer tried once more. “One last shot. A hug, please. A loving look toward the bride.”
Alejandro put his arm around María’s shoulders, but his weight felt dead—more burden than embrace. The rancid smell of alcohol seeped from him. María’s stomach turned.
Still, she tried to salvage the moment. She leaned gently toward his ear, voice soft, sweet, careful.
“My love,” she whispered, “smile a little more. The photos will be beautiful if we look happy.”
Those words—innocent, tender—hit Alejandro like a match thrown into gasoline.
He jerked away violently and turned to face her, eyes wide with irrational fury.
“Are you telling me what to do?” he shouted.
His voice echoed off the church’s stone walls, and the plaza fell into a silence so sudden it felt like someone had cut the power.
Even the musicians stopped.
