Sunday short stories, episode 1 : My Big Fat Greek Honeymoon
Hello readers! My name is Kay Kingsman and I am a fiction author and travel writer. I am starting a new weekly column called "Sunday short stories" that will be travel-focused short stories, each week featuring a new story in a new destination - a la Shakespeare when he used to publish his now famous stories in his local newspaper. If this particular story is not your cup of tea, feel free to skip; each week will be a different genre. If you love reading, please consider subscribing so you can be the first to read every week!
Now with that intro out of the way, let's get into the story.
My Big Fat Greek Honeymoon, by Kay Kingsman
location: Santorini, Greece
genre: crime, suspense
content warnings: murder (off-screen)
*This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
———
I was the one scared to get married. Everyone knew that.
Yes, it was a bit stereotypical of me, being a 30-something male and all, but marriage was a big deal. If anything, society was a bit too relaxed and casual about the fact marriage entails completely merging everything about your life to another person. And how long did newlyweds typically know each other? A couple years? Practically strangers. I was certainly not the man I was even two years ago.
Plus, my heart had been broken before so I didn't fancy the idea of having to pay thousands of dollars to eventually have the same thing happen all over again. Thankfully, Iris, bless her sweet heart, was very patient with me.
When we passed jewelry stores, she pretended to check her phone or suddenly feigned interest in the particular color of the sky. If we ate at an upscale restaurant, French if I chose or Mexican if she did, Iris would politely excuse herself to the restroom while the host looked up our reservation. However when my eyes followed her body sashaying into the bathroom, she would always pitstop by the kitchen to question the staff by miming kneeling and opening a box. Most of the time, they would shake their head, but on the off-chance they confirmed her suspicious of any proposals, we would promptly eat anywhere else.
I had never watched a romantic movie with Iris either. She claimed that genre was nauseatingly ridiculous and catered to the chauvinistic ideal that a woman's life, no matter how successful, was not complete without a witty and slightly arrogant male partner.
"Are you just saying that because I'm not witty or slightly arrogant?" I would tease.
"Well, you are definitely one of those," she would retort with a smirk, turning on Top Gun for the fiftieth time. Not that I was complaining. And while Iris wasn't completely wrong, about the romance genre not my level of wit, I couldn't help but notice her Netflix saved list was cheesier than a plate of nachos.
Iris did it all for me, which, when I was finally ready six years later, made my actual proposal extremely difficult.
I had to catch her completely off guard. She foiled my restaurant proposal twice, a fireworks proposal once, and she even caught the time at the Ferris wheel. I had asked the conductor to stop us at the top when Iris ran to grab a bag of cotton candy, and even made eye contact with him as we got inside our pod. We stopped at the top, sunset dazzling in the background. I took the box out of my pocket, then called out her name. My heart was in my throat as she looked at me.
Then she threw up all over my shoes.
I put the box back in my pocket.
It had come to the point where I wasn't nervous anymore, just frustrated about carrying around an awkwardly shaped velveteen cube for six months. For those who asked later of our proposal, they were answered with the story of how we stayed in Friday night for our favorite activity (again, Top Gun) and Iris asked me if she should skip her Pilates class in the morning and I responded with 'Will you marry me, Iris?' Not the cutest story, but at least vomit wasn't involved.
She even had a work around for my hesitation around price.
"A destination wedding?" I looked at her incredulously, but she just beamed back with her dazzlingly white grin.
"They're actually so much more affordable than normal weddings. Resorts usually have a package so less planning too. And my yiayia and Papou can join us."
My eyebrows furrowed together. "Wait, what do you mean?"
Now it was her turn to look at me incredulously. "I'm Greek."
"Oh. Really?"
"My name is Iris."
As if that was supposed to mean anything to me. Most of the Irises I had known were Asian. "Well, that's cool..." because I didn't know what else to say. Iris had never mentioned anything about her heritage before. See - practically strangers. "But you were born here, right?"
Her eyebrows rose into her hairline, "Does it matter?"
"No not at all." I quickly backtracked. "Greece sounds incredible."
And it was.
Iris was beautiful in Greece. We arrived to the island of Santorini, Greece a full week before our wedding so she could show me the streets she used to run down barefoot every summer on her annual family trip. There was something about the Mediterranean sun kissing her skin that made Iris even more beautiful. Her bright blue eyes sparkled like the water lapping up at our feet on the rocky shores. Her hair glistened, soaking up the warm rays until the curls expanded into a full thick halo around her head. The language dripping from her tongue blossomed a new personality, one that I had only briefly seen after Iris had a glass (or three) of wine.
On our wedding day, she was beautiful.
In between resort staff pulling and prodding me in every direction as they ushered us through the schedule, friends and family sobbing throughout the entire day, plates breaking everywhere...the one thing I remembered was how beautiful she was.
The day after our wedding day, she was also beautiful.
Looking down at Iris now, her eye makeup smeared down her cheeks and one set of fake eyelashes perched on the side of her forehead, she was still beautiful. The day we met, it was at a dim bar on a Wednesday night. I just had a bad day at work and she was out for happy hour with her girlfriends. Her future bridesmaids, in fact. Iris had absolutely no makeup on, but her laugh made everyone turn around to watch her. For one, her laugh was very loud and on the verge of a snort with every inhale, but it was also invigorating. She was beautiful then too. Meanwhile, those same bridesmaids stood behind her at the alter, their eyes as dry as the whiskey shots that night.
The way the sheet laid over her naked curves, revealing no information but teased to their secrets, I wanted everything to happen all over again. The meeting, the first day, the first kiss, the second kiss, every kiss after, all the hand holding and laughing and binge eating then stomach aches and the fairs, movies, vacations, running errands together. And the wedding. Oh the wedding. I wanted it all again, and to last forever.
Bruises from last night trickled down the side of her neck in a twisted galaxy of blue, purple, and red, but already starting to lose vibrancy. Iris still wore her veil, I couldn't get her to take it off. Not even a full day after the wedding. No one could convince her to part with it, and I knew she wanted to live in the dream again. For it to last forever.
The veil was ripped, torn into thin lace curtains cascading down the chestnut curls of her hair, now matted from hairspray and friction. Even with her eyes closed, I knew Iris was the love of my life.
'Is that her?' The coroner asked again, his hand firmly gripping my shaking shoulder. I hadn't even realized I was shaking. I hadn't even realized I was crying, barely holding myself up as my heart landed in my gut. Even with her blue skin and her fingernails ripped off and scratches running up and down her limbs, Iris was beautiful.
And it was only the beginning of our honeymoon.
——-
Stay tuned for Sunday short stories, episode 2, when we head to the continent of Africa for a rivals-to-lovers story set nestled in the mountains of Morocco!
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So, whether it becomes the tried and true vessel for cooking a daily family meal or sits and shows off its sleek style from the stove, the brand From the foundry in France, this image gives new meaning to the line: "if you can't stand the heat, ... More get out of the kitchen." 'I've had my Dutch Oven since 2015 and I still use it everyday. It's pink and makes me happy. I use it for everything from sauteeing veggies or making bolognese, to making tacos, soup, or chicken stock.'
