She and I were to be married, then the storm took her, and she tried to take me with her.
"You have the ring, my dear?" he asked, as the priest came near.
The waves crashed upon the rocks below. The surf and the foam, somehow given ethereal voice, as it climbed up the cliff walls.
"Of course, my love," she answered.
Yet, somehow her voice came to him as more than one, and one as all, and he was struck dumb. Regardless of sunsets unobtainable, he promised her horizons. Sudden gifts of gravity.
The ring was a perfect match to her finger, and her dotage was a perfect match to his ego.
Well matched, we were, until she grew a spine of her own. I never thought I'd need a spineless bride, till I met the girl who grew a spine inside. Now I'm tempted to throw myself over the cliff side, but I'll probably grow a backbone myself...Clyde.
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