Irrumator Praetor
Matrem Suam

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|  A Short Story by DW Lovegren  |

In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti. Amen.

Things sound so much better in Latin, don’t they, Father Connolly? 

I guess that’s why my parents splurged on the whole two-hour deluxe wedding package. The TLM, baby! Total. Latin. Mass. I’m sure you would have been fabulous with the Gregorian chanting. 

Father, do you want a drink? I’m sure you have an extra glass or two in the rectory somewhere. 

I don’t need a glass. I’ll just drink out of the bottle. 

I can hide out here for a bit, right? Wait for things to calm down? It’s a fucking war zone out there. I’m not gonna lie. 

Sorry, Father. 

But seriously. It’s been a day. 

Anyways, this is really, really excellent champagne. I’m just going to pour some of this in your coffee mug. What’s your mug say? Work For God—The Retirement Benefits Are Great. Hah. That’s pretty funny, Father.

Whoops, maybe a little coffee was still left in the bottom of your mug. I’m sure we’ve just created something amazing here. The Champagne Coffee Cocktail. My mother and her Botox-for-Life buddies will absolutely drink it if it’s the new thing. This could be a new little pick-me-up after their Pilates classes, just before their therapy sessions. 

Mom’s going to need a lot of therapy in the future, that’s for sure. And she certainly likes new things. Things that aren’t even hers. 

Hey, there’s more champagne where this came from, Mon Père. Like, 40 bottles chilling down in the Annex, ready for the big toast. In case you didn’t hear, the toast is toast. So let’s make a dent in 40 bottles of champagne on the wall, shall we? Well, 40 minus two bottles. I think I drank two. Actually minus three, since I smashed one. It made for a very dramatic effect. Glass everywhere. Bubbles. Random screams, some of them even from other people.

I’m sure the cork is up someone’s ass. 

Sorry, Father. 

Let's just say the past hour has been . . . difficult. Difficilis, as the Romans would say. 

I’m so glad they taught us Latin at Saint Andrew’s. So helpful, really, in learning curse words: Irrumator Praetor is a pretty elegant way to call someone a bastard, asshole, cocksucker, overall fucker. A very useful phrase today indeed. I was screaming Irrumator Praetor over and over about a half hour ago to my dearly beloved. Seriously, it felt like a Harry Potter curse. Like Voldemort was going to appear with his dementors. 

Frankly, that would have been preferable. 

This is a pretty dress. I had a veil at some point, but I think I flushed it down the toilet when I walked in on them. And not much before I was ready to be the respondeat sponsa and say, Volo. Volo! In my Total Latin Mass in front of two hundred people—Volo! I do. I did. I don’t. 

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Drink your champagne, Father. 

Don’t worry, Father Connolly. You’re still getting paid. Everyone is getting paid. The florist. The caterer. The organist. The limousine driver. The wedding planner. I mean, I’m not paying, but someone is.

Someone really is going to pay. 

You don’t mind if I smoke a cigar, do you? See this little box? It was supposed to be for my husband. But, we didn’t get that far, did we, Father? So, it was supposed to be a gift for my fiancé from my actual father, Father. So my fiancé—I guess he’s just a former boyfriend now, right? Anyway, my father bought a whole box of cigars and put them in this carbon fiber lacquered cigar humidor. It’s tiny, I know. Portable size for the golf course for some pretty sweet business deals that aren’t going to happen now. Guess my former future ex-husband boyfriend messed that up, too. I don’t think he’ll be working for my dad anymore. Just saying. Seeing how things all turned out. 

I’m going to light this up, all right? 

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Want one? 

That’s not a bad smoke ring. I still got it. I smoked cigars in college. It made us sorority girls all look so cool, I guess. 

No, don’t worry about the ashes getting on my dress. It’s a Stella McCartney from Bergdorf, but I’m going to burn it later. With the humidor and some other stuff. Lots of other stuff. Like my baby books. Really everything in one big glorious funeral pyre. I’ll be like Dido and crawl on top and curse Aeneus. 

I’m going to sell the wedding rings, though. After all this? I should be able to pocket a few bucks from all of this hardware. You can’t sprinkle enough holy water to exorcise the demons out of these suckers, Papa. These rings, I mean look at them. My precious. Maybe Frodo should throw them into Mount Doom?

Why am I barefoot? I kicked the cake. That was one very tall cake, Father C. Let me tell you from recent experience that Jimmy Choo’s satin shoes do not hold up against buttercream frosting very well. Make a note of it in case this sort of thing happens again.

I don’t need your Kleenex, Father. These are actually tears of joy. Tears of clarity. 

Do I want to pray with you? 

Here?

No, I don’t want to pray with you, Father. What I wanted to do was to marry the man I loved in a church decorated with white roses and lilacs. I wanted a half dozen bridesmaids and groomsmen to look at us with a grotesque amount of jealousy since I purged myself into this size 4 dress. I wanted hundreds of people I hardly know to toast us with champagne and then eat some mystery chicken entrée and dance to a subpar cover band. 

Guess what I didn’t want? To drink warm champagne in a rectory with a sad-eyed priest on my wedding day. 

Fine, you want to pray? I’ll start. O Lord, hear my prayer against mothers who do not want to age gracefully. And let my cry come to you because, God, I lost my future with a man and my past with a mother whom I both loved. 

This praying stuff isn’t really hard, Father. You get paid for this? 

I shall proceed. 

Hold my cigar.

Let us pray. We beg you, Lord, to look on these your servants, and graciously uphold the institution of marriage established by you for the continuation of the human race, so that they who have been joined together by your authority may remain faithful together by your help. May matrem suam, the mothers of the world, keep their filthy hands off their daughter’s husbands. 

Copyright © 2021 Deidra Whitt Lovegren  |  All Rights Reserved. Using content without author's written permission is prohibited!

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