They talked, once, about what the wedding actually was.
Not the wisteria, not the dress, not the reasonable guest list. What it was as a thing. What they were saying by doing it.
It was late — past eleven, Daniel long asleep, the city outside in its quiet phase. They were in bed, and she was reading and he wasn't quite reading, which was how she knew he had something sitting with him.
"What's on your mind?" she said.
He put his book down.
"I've been married before," he said.
"I know."
"I've done the — the standing at the end of the path, the promise in front of people." He looked at the ceiling. "The first time I believed I was doing the right thing. I wasn't performing. I thought it was what I wanted."
She put her book down too.
"I know," she said. "I know it wasn't a calculated
