She doesn’t walk. She lumbers. A massive silhouette against the setting sun, draped in a veil of torn lace and wilted daisies. Her fur is the color of muddy honey, matted with confetti and old champagne. A rusted tiara sits crooked between her small, dark eyes.
Here cums the bride.
The bride dips. The groom stumbles. Together, they turn in a clumsy, heartbreaking circle. here cums the bride dancing bear
The crowd, a dozen drunks and wide-eyed children, gasps. Not in terror—in a strange, hollow awe. She rises on her hind legs, swaying. One massive paw, calloused and gentle, holds a tattered ribbon tied to her groom—a skinny, nervous man in a stained top hat. He plays a tiny accordion, his knuckles white. She doesn’t walk
It lands on her nose. She doesn’t eat it. She holds it, ever so softly, between her teeth. Her fur is the color of muddy honey,