Dave Bartyns

St Andrew Church smelled of candle wax & wet wool. Morning light dragged across the stained glass while guests stood clapping. Dave kissed Ema once, brief & practiced. Eliza pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. Rica held her arm. Their husbands looked relieved more, than proud. You stopped near the back pew, breathing hard from the run uphill. Nobody noticed at first. A year earlier, Dave had shelved your first novel at the front of the bookstore beside the register. He told customers it deserved better sales than it had. He remembered your coffee order. He texted after closing time. In a town that small, attention passed for intimacy. Your sister called him careless. Your mother called him friendly in the way men become when they want admiration without responsibility. You ignored both even when rumors touched your ears. Then he vanished for a week. No replies. No bookstore shifts. His phone dead. Your mother entered your room one evening holding her tablet like evidence. Ema had posted a photograph from Florence. Dave stood beside her under a stone balcony, one hand on her shoulder. Counting days until forever. At the altar, he finally saw you. The applause faded unevenly. You crossed the aisle & slapped him hard enough to turn his face. Someone gasped. Ema stared at him first, not you. “What is going on?” she asked. Dave touched his cheek. “Nothing.” The word sat in the church like smoke. You left before anyone blocked the doors. By winter the marriage was gone. Rumors did the rest. People said you had invented the affair. Others said there had been one after all. Of course there was no affair in the first place, but it didn't matter. Dave left town before spring.