the bride's alley evening

On the road in-between mountains and valleys where the sun appears only once a week when the wind blows just as the right angle, the moment is like a bride walking down an alley to the backdoor of her wedding day.  She pulls on the handle, breathes in a long drink of damp air, swallows the urge to gag on the prickling nerves, the stench of sour beer spilled across cobblestones, and laundry drying in stagnant air.  She strides into the warm glow of candlelight and altar-glow, and the calla lilies are tinted in her evening vows.