When Old Flings Get Married

That Could Have Been Me . . .

I met a woman in Vietnam. She wasn’t Vietnamese, she was Canadian, and she was a photographer. Let’s call her Scarlett.

Scarlett was sober, and I didn’t understand how to be around somebody who was sober. Not yet.

We would go out to eat in ancient cities, in Saigon and Hoi An, and she would actually care about the food. She wanted to eat strange meals, to put things in her mouth whose names she’d never spoken. She wanted to talk about sauces. She wanted to take pictures of hot pots.

I just wanted something in my stomach before my fifth beer.

We left each other’s lives rather unceremoniously in Da Nang. Now we are estranged. Facebook friends: distant, but existent.

Every few months I flick through her photography. It is always a joy. Scarlett has a talented eye, and I get to watch her from a distance, to see the sublime ghost of her life that she leaves on Instagram.

I was not surprised that she posted engagement photographs last week. It was the photographs themselves that were surprising.

I feel like my head has left my body. I can’t access my own thoughts when I see these pictures. Artistically, I really like them.

I haven’t seen anything like this before.

That sentence alone is worth the price of admission to an art gallery.

But what are these? Are they funny? Are they a statement on the concept of marriage? The modern equivalent of a ball and chain metaphor?

Did she just find a soulmate who loves making a stir? Who doesn’t mind — hell, who probably enjoys — horrifying friends and family for the sake of an unforgettable photograph?

This one is by far my favorite. Maybe I’m just more comfortable with the thought of a man hogtied in a trunk than I am with a woman in the same position. Who knows — but to me, this one photograph is the start of a thousand short stories.

If things had gone differently . . .

If I had sobered up two years earlier . . .

If I hadn’t been distracted by other romantic possibilities . . .

If I had been open to the idea of a better half . . .

Then maybe I would be the one in that trunk.

Thanks for reading.

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