“Such confessions of love should only be spoken rarely, as it makes it more special,” I said to my blushing bride. “It got old, really, when my parents would confess their love every morning and night, like it was a chore that came after doing the dishes. I vow to make love special, my dear.” 

“But words don’t make love special. Actions do.” 

“And words are actions, are they not, my dear?” 

She had nothing to say, so she put her head on my shoulder. 

“If you are not happy, you can tell me the truth, unless you have extra lies to spare.” 

“I would never lie to you,” she confessed. 

I smiled, the big all-knowing smile that I knew she loved so much. “I’m happy to hear that. You are the fire that warms my bed. The song I sing in the shower. The moon that reflects in my garden pond.”

“And you are mine.”

They left the small secluded room to join their wedding guests once more, drinking champagne and toasting to the newly wedded couple. It was a grand affair, paid in full by the bride’s parents, who were rich enough to buy love, if they wanted to. 

“I still can’t believe that I met you in that book store.” My bride swooned. “It must have been fate, or some life-changing cosmic event. I went there everyday, for years, and the one day I didn’t feel like it, my parents insisted I go, and there you are. It was like you were waiting for me.”

With a quick glance, I took in her hasty appearance, one so unlike the one before her. “In a way I was.”

“I love you,” she said. 

But I was out of lies. I ran out of them a long time ago. 

“You know how I feel about those words.”