“It’s showtime,” said Abby, wearing a dress the size of a taffeta school bus and carrying a bouquet of calla lilies, thistle and English tea roses as we stood at the rear of the church. Abby was my matron of honor, preceding me down the aisle, and I remembered that awful year of her illness. I was so glad she could be here in all her glory.

I followed, with my parents on either side. “I’m crying,” whispered my mom. “Because I’m so happy and because I just saw Oprah.”

“What a thrilling day,” said my dad. “Now you’re part of English history, like Sir Thomas More, who presided over the Abbey before he was convicted of treason.”

We passed Gerald and Maureen, barely concealing their disappointment over Edgar not abdicating. They’d given interviews championing LGBTQ rights and were building a new tennis court on the grounds of their estate. As I passed their pew, Maureen mouthed, “Congratulations! Fingers crossed!”

Miriam sat across the aisle beside Queen Catherine, who’d insisted on this partnership. I’m not sure if they’d planned it, but the queen was also wearing gold and pink, so the women looked like sisters, or cowinners of a beauty pageant, splitting the title of Ms. Senior Boca Raton. Miriam was clutching the queen’s gloved hand, and they both mouthed “Kina hora poo poo poo” at me and mimed spitting on the floor. The queen smiled, something I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen before. It was like a benediction, and Miriam turned to her and whispered, “Good for you!”

I let myself see Edgar, in his amazing royal outfit, which combined a military jacket looped with gold braid and a sash dripping with jeweled medallions and ribbons, atop a splendid kilt and lustrously polished boots. He looked so impossibly handsome and sexy that I turned to James, who was by Edgar’s side as his best man, and we exchanged the universal gay facial expression meaning, “Oh my GOD!”

The security team, while technically on duty, was clustered nearby, also serving as Edgar’s groomsmen. They scanned the crowd discreetly, but as Lucky glanced at Edgar and me, I saw Terry pass him the handkerchief the team was sharing to manfully dab at their eyes.

Edgar and I faced each other. We were being married by the archbishop of Canterbury, Rabbi Kottleman from my family’s temple in Piscataway, and Louise, who’d had herself ordained online at the Church of the Unicorn Renaissance, a nondenominational group that charged ten dollars for a certificate. As Louise had told me, “You need a black woman up there, and because I’m a Unicorn Goddess I get to say anything I want.”