The Last Tale of the Flower Bride

by Roshani Chokshi

I have always been intrigued by these not-quite women, whether they were sirens or mermaids, kinnari or selkie. The world can’t seem to decide whether to condemn, covet, or celebrate them.

“To hope,” said Indigo, clinking her glass to mine. “And to all the beautiful ways in which we can forget its fatality.”

“Reality is what you make of your surroundings. And the world outside my own cannot touch me.”

Indigo was so much like the fairy tales she loved that I suspected she was one.

She is already beyond me. I am simply the thing that marks the journey, that which is left behind to bear witness.

“My brave and fearless Azure,” Indigo would say. But she never asked if I wanted to be those things.

We beheld each other. I didn’t know Indigo, and yet I loved her in spite of this. Or perhaps because of it.

I would always love her. Even when she hurt me. Even when she held a blade to my throat. Perhaps especially so, for no one else had ever bothered.

I have never before considered what it means to have a good marriage. I thought it was finding intriguing and attractive company. But maybe it is about finding someone whose heart is like a mirror, whose love can make you stand the sight of yourself.

I take a deep breath, and I speak: “The first thing you have to understand is that I loved her.”