A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

…and they lived happily ever after,
except when they didn’t. The kiss
beside the Opera House sails, him
holding the umbrella away,
that they may indeed be soaked
by the pouring rain, just as the lyric
requested. The narrative might conclude
there, the audience sobbing
at the sweet-yet-silly joys of romance.  It may
have concluded with the invitation:
you, me, French martinis.  Or perhaps
the day the ring slipped 
onto her finger as they mucked around
in the coastal breeze. Or the end titles
start to roll the day nuptial vows 
were exchanged. She was not naive enough
to think there would never be difficulties, 
but she was naive enough to think 
none would be insurmountable,
and that they both had pure intentions,
and that love really was enough.
Everyone said it was the best wedding
they’d ever attended. Not because it was lavish, 
but because it was real, and this
reinforced her delusions. Then the narrative 
trudged through seemingly endless
chapters of dreary reality as darknesses
simmered to the surface, until she discovered
this was her story, neither his nor even theirs,
and that no measure of her love or intent
could redact the growing mound of pain
nor stem the bleeding from her fragile heart.
The denouement came as a surprise: 
the liberation of walking away.
Camera tilt to sky, orchestral crescendo.
Tissues dab at eyes as patrons climb
over scattered popcorn in the half-light,
ready to return to their tedium. 
The epilogue lies discarded
on the cutting room floor
just as she lies crying on her bed. 
Not that she lost him, nor even
what she’s realised: that she never 
had him at all. She knows
the choice was right. She knows
she is and will be better off, but she knows
that life is neither fair nor easy,
that this, still, is not happily ever after,
that even the wisest choices
may contain unsavoury consequences,
and this is merely the start of the next chapter.