Going to the chapel…

Another four prompts from Jolene.

Another absurd little tale. Okay, maybe not that absurd.

The prompts:

1. laundromat 
2. shocking announcement
3. person who takes shortcuts 
4. person who needs to remove a tattoo right away

Gee, I really love you
And we're gonna get married
Going to the chapel of love

The sunlight was more blinding than it had any right to be, piercing even eyes closed tight against such insults and it sent my head spinning. Or the room spinning. Or, the whole world had become a giant tilt-a-whirl and I fought the urge to vomit up all the liquor I had consumed at the—

Umm. Record release party on the Strip. That sounded right, the answer hiding just behind the pounding on the inside of my skull by some wee gnome with a steel hammer.

After which, I think it was followed by an an after-hours rave.

I think. Things went all wobbly right after hailing the Uber with Jessie and that producer she had the hots for that we were chatting up at the release party.

I groaned and sank deeper into the clouds, hoping they might swallow me whole. My forearm was itching like hell and tender to the touch.

“Good morning, beautiful.”

I blinked against the sunlight and opened my eyes to discover the sun had evolved into twin fluorescent tubes just over my head.

“Patrick?” I asked, sounding as helpless as I felt. “When did you end up in Vegas?”

I pulled myself up by the bedrails they had kindly erected around the perimeter of my bed to keep me from falling out. The rails seemed higher than needed, if anyone were to ask for my opinion at the time. Well, maybe not.

“Larry, actually. Your husband.”

I looked at the man who had just said he was my husband. He was kicking his feet in an absent manner atop a frontloading washer while nibbling at a toaster pastry from the adjacent vending machine. He was a bit short to be someone I would choose as a husband. Another notable observation: He wasn’t Patrick.

Fuck.

He gestured with the pastry. “Want one? My treat.”

I threw up onto the linoleum surrounding my bed of clouds which, as it so happened, was a canvas rolling bin for the hotel laundry. I noticed one of his shoes was missing as I puked.

“Sorry,” I said after I was done voiding the previous evening’s entertainment from my gut. “It’s nothing personal, just overconsumption. I’ll admit, though, that I wasn’t expecting to find I had managed to pick up a stray husband overnight.”

He shrugged. “It’s Vegas.” As if that explained everything.

Someone dressed in the hotel uniform was folding towels behind Larry with her back to us.

“It is Vegas,” she agreed, not turning around.

That’s when something under my butt vibrated. I felt around and discovered that somehow my purse had managed to follow me into the rolling cart and my mobile was letting me know I had an incoming call.

In my present state I was unable to navigate both the purse and subsequent phone extraction before voicemail took over. It might have been easier had I crawled out of the laundry cart, but that seemed one impossibility too much to handle this early in the morning.

Correction: my phone informed me that noon was a increasingly distant memory as I navigated to my messages.

‘HEEEEEY!” I winced. “Guess what, hon’? My flight was diverted due to inclement weather in Denver and we just landed in Vegas. They’re saying we can’t get into Denver before tomorrow at the earliest. I won’t complain, it gives me a chance to spend an evening with my favorite fiancée. Heading over to your hotel now.”

I groaned.

Fuck.

“That was Patrick?” asked Larry with his mouth full of pastry. “I’m guessing he doesn’t know we’re married.”

I started to shake my head, thought better of it. “I’m just finding out myself, so I doubt the news has spread that far.”

“Oh. I thought you’d posted on Facebook right after the ceremony.”

I frantically checked my account. There were pictures of me with a $5 veil and a bottle of champagne. Larry and I were holding each other up at an alter.

Fuck.

Still, I could spin it that it was all just a joke. Hardy har har. Look at Sera clowning around with some stranger. Wait until Patrick sees this. LOL [tearful laughing emoji].

“I can fix this,” I muttered. “There’s a divorce court next to the chapel isn’t there?”

“You want a divorce already? But we haven’t even consummated our marriage yet.”

“My fiancée might take offense if we were to take care of that just as he’s catching a ride to ‘surprise’ me.”

“Good point, but I want to point out that all of my marriages last as least the weekend before someone divorces me. I’m very popular. For at least a weekend anyway.”

I tried to pull myself out of the cart and ended up needing Larry’s help. The room still swam, but I could stand upright without leaning too far in any one direction. I don’t think I leaned too far, anyway.

“Let’s go get divorced, Larry. Pronto.”

“Alright, but there’s one other detail you might have forgotten.”

“Oh yeah? Whuzzat?”

He pointed at my tender forearm. “Whatcha going to do about that?”

Tattooed where my arm itched the most: I love Larry 4ever.

He showed his twin: I love Sera 4ever.

Fuckity-fuck.

“Don’t worry,” he said, rummaging through the storage cabinet. The hotel worker continued to fold towels. “I’ve got some not-so-insignificant experience hiding embarrassing tattoos.”

He emerged from the cabinet smiling with a box of lye and a pumice stone. “We can make it look like you burned yourself with a curling iron until you can find a professional to take care of removing it.”

“Really? A curling iron?”

“Really. Well, more like the kind of iron you use on pressing clothes, but you can say you got it as you want. Set up that Uber, I know a shortcut and we’ll be back in a jiffy.”

I paid the premium rate for the fare.