I knew she’d do it again—I just knew . . .

So, I was standing at the altar with my brother and best friend, in front of God and everyone who loved me, waiting for my beloved bride to walk the aisle. Finally, the doors opened and she strolled in—and that’s when everything went to shit.

She wasn’t wearing that $5,000 dollar white gown I’d bought her. Instead, she was wearing a tawdry red silk thing that barely contained her bosom and clung to her seductively everywhere else. She had a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. It didn’t take much brainpower to suss out that this would end badly.

She stomped up the steps of the dais with a scowl and spat in my face, then she took a big swig of the champagne and announced to the congregation that I, her beloved, had been having an affair with my strange little friend Becka all these years, and that she’d just recently found that out. Of course, that it wasn’t true would make no difference—the dye had been cast.

She then shared with considerable glee that she’d thought turnabout was fair play, so she’d been sleeping with my brother and my best friend for the last several weeks. The discontented rumble that’d been growing in the room burst into a cacophony. Realizing the situation was beyond repair, I decided to make haste. I ignored my brother and best friend, both of whom were making stuttering denials of my bride-to-be’s carnal claims, and I exited the nave through the nearest door. Just as I pulled away in my car, I saw a chair fly through a stained glass window.

Becka. Somehow I knew she’d be waiting for me at my place; so after driving around a bit to calm down, I headed home. Sure enough, she was sitting on my couch sipping a martini.

“So, how’d it go?” she asked blandly.

“That question doesn’t deserve an answer.”

She shrugged, took a sip, said, “I told you a long time ago, David—you belong to me. You and I are destined to be together.”

“You seem to forget that I have a say in the matter.”

“I know you think you do.” She rested her hand on my shoulder as I sat next to her. “You’ll come around.”

Naturally, there was another martini sitting on the coffee table; I picked it up and drank it down.

“Well,” I said, “at least you didn’t kill her.”

Three years prior, my first bride-to-be, Marsha, had suffered a massive brain aneurysm at our rehearsal dinner and died on the spot. Of course, Becka never confessed. She didn’t have to. She knew I knew.

“Well,” she said, feigning concern, “there might be an accident—“

There was a knock at the front door. Becka looked at me sympathetically, said, “You might want to answer. I’m pretty sure it’s the cops—and they have some bad news.”