67
Peter
My ptichka is pale and startlingly beautiful as she stands next to me, listening to the judge give his spiel. He talks about love and commitment, about supporting each other through thick and thin, and a dark wave of satisfaction rolls through me as he poses the traditional question to Sara, and she responds quietly, “Yes, I do.”
He turns to me then.
“Do you, Peter Garin, take Sara Cobakis to be your legally wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
“Yes,” I say clearly, making sure my voice carries to our small audience. “I do.”
“You may now kiss the bride,” the judge says, and I face Sara.
She’s looking up at me, eyes wide and soft lips parted, and I bend my head, brushing my lips gently across that tempting mouth. It’s very im
