The white dress seemed ridiculous to her. She hasn’t been a virgin since she was 14

Cleo didn’t want a white dress, but she was hoping for a wedding cake. She could have ordered it herself from an Italian bakery on the Lower East Side, one of those places where powdered sugar or dust covered every surface, but she left the meal planning to Santiago, known for its ecstatic and orgiastic parties. Santiago thought they should forget about the traditional cake, and since nothing about her marriage to Frank looked traditional, she didn’t insist that he change his mind. In fact, she didn’t insist on anything about the wedding. She had bought a dress for the occasion, but she had chosen blue. It was ending June, too hot for anything fancy, and white always seemed ridiculous to her. She hadn’t been a virgin since she was fourteen. She let Frank slip her hands under her panties in the stairwell the first night they met. It felt like writing the alphabet on her clitoris. L, M, N, O… Boom!

She was concerned that she hadn’t bought a nightgown

No, there was no reason for her to wear a white dress. The one she’d chosen was tucked away in the back of an inexplicably expensive vintage shop on Perry Street – a simple tunic of flowing silk was so much cheaper than anything else that Cleo later wondered if she’d bought a nightgown. When she slipped it over her head, it felt like she had reached up to heaven with a knife, carved a piece out of the bottom, and put it on. Frank still managed to outbid her by showing up at City Hall wearing a three-piece ivory tuxedo.

Cleopatra & Frankenstein, Coco Mellors Proszynski Media

Cleo was waiting on the stairs, eating a hot dog she had bought from a nearby stand – she had never tried one before, and she told herself it was the day of firsts – when she saw his white top hat bouncing over the gray street. She put down her half-eaten bun and threw her head back in delight. – And…? Frank spun on his heel so she could see the whole thing. Behind him, a family of tourists snapped a picture of him. “You are an incorrigible lancer.” “Coming from you, that sounds like a compliment,” he said. He ran his hands over the slick silk of her back and grabbed her buttocks. “Do we look like we’re going to two different weddings?” she asked. “You look fantastic,” Frank complimented. – Like a small pond. “And you look…” She paused to examine him more closely. – By my own way. It was true. Frank, half mad hatter and aging glam rock star, looked surprisingly natural.

“Do I smell mothballs?” He craned his neck for her to sniff him, and she pressed her nose to the tanned skin above the collar. – NO. Soap and…’ She jerked her head back. – A genie? “I had one before I left.” I had to! It’s my wedding day! Come on, let’s go inside. “Our wedding, honey,” she corrected. “Ours, yours, mine, theirs…” Frank sang.

It hadn’t occurred to them to invite a witness

He grabbed her hand and they ran up the stairs, two at a time. What is a wedding, thought Cleo, if not a public private dream, a fantasy suspended between two worlds like a cat’s cradle? However, Cleo never dreamed of getting married. She fantasized about her first solo show, about a day dedicated solely to her. It terrified her that recently it was easier to imagine the vernissage than the paintings on display. She feared that she was one of those artists who cared more about being an artist than creating art. It was a fear so deep, so desperately common, that she told no one, not even Frank. Since it hadn’t occurred to them to invite a witness, Frank ran outside and asked the hot dog vendor to join them. He surprised them by crying silently throughout the ceremony, which lasted less than five minutes. Back in the sun, Cleo gave him a hug, and Frank insisted on slipping a hundred-dollar bill into his hand before saying goodbye. The couple headed north to Canal Street, then stopped and smiled awkwardly at each other, unsure of what to do next.

Frank, without letting go of Cleo’s hand, raised his hand to look at his watch. “We’ve got a couple of hours to go.” Do you want to drink? She shook her head. Thirty guests were invited to the wedding dinner, but inevitably more were to come. The whole thing felt like a whim, a crazy parody of adulthood. For Cleo, who had just turned twenty-five, it made sense, but Frank was in his mid-forties and fifties. She thought he was too old to consider himself too young to marry. She looked around. Across the street, a sign advertised aura reading for ten dollars. – What do you think? Frank was skeptical. “Do you think they’ll make me a drink there?” They gave up the sunlight of the street and stepped through the beaded curtain into a quiet, dark place. It smelled of incense and takeaway food. The hustle and bustle left on Canal Street was replaced by the high, jarring sounds of harp music. A middle-aged Chinese woman smiled at them from behind a counter with crystal stones and beaded jewelry. “Did you get married today?” she asked, pointing to Frank’s tuxedo. “It’s good you came here.”

She encouraged Cleo to take a seat in a high-backed chair in front of an old-fashioned tripod camera and place her hands on the two metal discs on either side. “You’re so pretty,” she said, looking at her. “Now don’t move.” She disappeared under a sheet of black canvas attached to the back of the camera, pressed a button that caused a soft huff, then reappeared.

“Eighty percent of a relationship is tolerating differences”

Cleo didn’t expect to feel anything deeper while taking the photo, but she hoped for more than just the correct but characterless driver’s license photo. Frank took her place; she watched as he straightened his tie. She caught a glimpse of what his youth might have been like: an excited elementary school graduate being photographed for a yearbook. He looked at the camera from under his long lashes and smiled uncertainly, as if hoping it would turn out well. The device made another hiss and Cleo felt her heart beat faster. She loved him, she really did. Then they stood at the glass counter and looked at their photos. Cleo’s aura was purple-yellow, while Frank’s aura was red-green. “Does that mean we’re compatible?” Cleo asked anxiously. – How long have you been together? the woman asked. “Six months,” Frank replied.

The woman nodded. “Eighty percent of a relationship,” she said, “is tolerating differences. “And the other twenty percent?” Frank wanted to know. The woman shrugged. – Fucking. The rest of the aura reading had a rough exterior. Frank’s aura suggested he was creative, charismatic, and worried about money. Cleo’s Aura talked about her intuition, sensitivity, stubbornness and that she should drink more herbal tea. And that’s it. Frank paid the woman and bowed ceremoniously before Cleo could drag him out through the beaded curtain. She looked at him, squinting against the sun. “What do you think?” she asked. “Are we compatible?” “Well, at least twenty percent of the relationship is done. Then he put his arm around her, and they kissed for a long time, unembarrassed and unostentatious, Chinatown withering in the heat around the pyramid of fruit, the rows of diamond-studded watches blinking in the sun, and women spreading and folding fans of half-conscious thoughts.