I frowned. I could not imagine a bachelor party; interfaithmarriage religious counseling; walking down the aisle together: me, a full foot shorter than Donald; Donald surely bumping his head on low-hanging trellises, flowers, light fixtures, chuppah, if there was one. I tried to explain my superficial misgivings, but he would have none of it.

I didn’t blame him.

“I don’t buy it,” he said, searching my eyes for the truth. “Now tell me the real reason you don’t want a wedding.”

I wished I could have, but it was all too difficult to articulate; impossible to justify. That to me, big weddings with guests and dresses and rented tuxedos and flowers and bands and buffet food stations were for other people. For people who had faith in the future of their happiness; who did not see such a festive event as tempting fate, as an absolute precursor to divorce. So I just said this:

“Weddings scare me.”

And thinking that meant I had a sort of stage fright—a fear of public displays of affection—he scooped me up in his arms and dismissed my fear unilaterally.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of!” he said, as if he knew already just how dark were the depths of negativity in the woman who had just agreed to marry him. “I’ll be with you the whole time!”

I fought the impulse to succumb to my usual pessimism. Instead, moved by Donald’s touching effort to always understand me even when I didn’t understand myself, I grabbed his hand, held it tightly to my forehead like a cool compress and closed my eyes.

Then I excused myself and went next door to the CVS and bought twenty pounds of bridal magazines to try to get myself in the mood.

But that was months ago.

Worlds ago.

The matrimonial wheels were set in motion, now; there was no going back.

Our deposits, for one thing, would not be returned; all our hordes of friends and family, for another, were expecting invitations, not cancellations.

And so, in the weeks that followed Adrienne’s visit, I turned inward; forged ahead. I called, faxed, emailed, decided, finalized, confirmed, wrote checks.

Of course, all of this nose-to-the-grindstone business had to be negotiated, and then cleared, with the Evil Twins. With the specter of Adrienne lingering in the house (her French perfume; the moping, lovesick dog who seemed to have no more use for me since being reunited with her true mistress) and the “souvenir” of her visit I’d managed to save—a white cloth napkin she’d used at dinner and which held, like a fly in amber, a perfectly preserved smudge of her stunning lipstick, which I simply had to have (I planned on taking the napkin with me to Saks, or Neiman’s, or even to Barneys in New York if I had to, in a quasi-forensic quest to try to match it), the Twins were on high alert for intelligence. Their insatiable need for information would have to be met, I knew. With my back up against the wall, in complete desperation, I struck a deal with their lidless ids: