Bubly

I went to bed at nine. Posh hotel at Main Sq, the very center of this yokelish wannabe city I’ve never warmed to like. I’m up at 3:30, my bad, shouldn’t go that early last night.

Working from my room, breakfast and a first meeting at eight. Followed by three more — and off I go, 400 kilometers across the country. I don’t have to be there — but I want to. It’s like a probe into my past. Time machine of sorts.

Here I am, with plenty of time to spare. Buying flowers and having a coffee with the florist. If everyone were doing business the way they do, the world would be a much better place. People are somehow nicer here.

And it’s time. Wedding march, here she walks down the isle. She’s radiating — and at the same time she seems so natural, so unaffected by the occasion. It’s a candid moment. She’s at ease.

It’s her the same way I got to know her years back. The same way I recall few brief moments spent in her proximity. I get to keep that image for years to come.

And I love the way she described herself back then. Bubbly. Maybe only now I came to fully understand the transcendent meaning of the word and what it represents.

A fleeting kiss after the ceremony, a photo or two are taken, and I wish them both love, lots of neverending love and understanding. And I’m gone again, back to the busy schedule split between airports and hotels — and some bubbly time here and there.