The room is aglow in candles, casting a soft, cozy light while Jen and her friends raise their wine glasses to toast. The five of them sit in a circle on the floor of the studio. Today is a special day, not just because they’ve all been at Jen’s opening together – which by all accounts, was a smash success – but because it is their first year anniversary from a day that changed their lives forever.
Rosemary passes the feather to Jen, meaning it’s Jen’s turn to speak. Instead, she clicks the remote control and starts the video on the high-def screen.
There’s Alby, floating down the aisle to a Renaissance-era wedding march, approaching the sacred circle of her Wiccan wedding. Jen fast forwards through the lovely, meaningless vows, through the officiant symbolically winding the rope around their wrists, through the cheers and bubbles and petals floating through the air. She knows the spot she’s looking for, it’s where the groom trips the land mines.
Jen’s friends oooh and ahhh, giggling as the camera weaves through the crowd, sped up like a silent movie. The images flashing across the screen show the beautiful tent, adorned in whispery muslin, fairy lights, and chic greenery. The shimmering glass centerpieces look like miniature Zen gardens. The guests are daintily forking their picture-perfect entrees, looking happy and sated.
Here it comes. The groom is rising from the dining table, running his hand through his unkempt chestnut locks, wavering a little from the drink. He clicks on the microphone. The group watching the video takes a deep collective breath.
They know what he’s about to do. They know he’s about to drop a bomb, and they’re in its sites. He’s about to expose the witch, the bitch and the slut.