Octopus Hands
He married the Octopus Lady for her hair, not her tentacles. Her hair, which was so red, it was orange and so soft, it felt like it was drifting underwater. Waves and waves of white taffeta crashed and receded over the bottom half of her, so that when she sat still in the wheelchair beside him, she was an ordinary bride, with many, many arms, but many, many arms covered with beading and lace. There was a moment of confusion, when the rings were presented, a whispering sigh when he tied the ring around her neck.
The reception took place in the church parlor, where all the couches for meaningful conversations about abstinence and the diocese were shoved against the wall, the fluorescent overhead lights shut off and flickering twinkled lights hung. The guests sat at tables while the bride and groom swayed in place. The centerpieces were inflatable octopi, to show they had a sense of humor. The favors were tiny bells, with their initials engraved on them, to show they were in love and would be in love forever.
It was always night time for them; the night never ended, the shadows only grew longer and wider across the soft floor. He shoved cake into her beak, and she, floating on champagne, her head the heaviest part of her, clung to him, those arms everywhere, roaming over his back, his neck, his knee, his ear, until he passed her off to her father.
She married him for his inflexibility, the breakable density of him that carried him in stiff lines from one person to another. That heavy part of her, her mantle, her flaming red-orange hair, hung back as she sat at one of those tables, drifting, watching him, her four hearts beating with love, and her many fluid arms reaching for it.
Kristen Figgins received her BA in English Literature from the University of Texas of the Permian Basin and is currently a graduate student in Creative Writing at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, where she co-hosts the Thursday Night Reading Series.