Honey Moon | Isabel Cooke | The Hypocrite Reader

Isabel Cooke

Honey Moon


Isabel Cooke, incidental byproduct of the beet juice stains on the fingertips of someone you love very much but who appears to you only in dreams and the manner in which you arrange your mouth when you know someone is looking at it, is to be married on May 12, 2018. To whom, or more precisely to what, we are, at the present moment, either unsure or unable to disclose. Of one thing, however, we can be certain: there is not, nor will there ever be, a groom.

The ceremony was to be held in the spaces between the stars of Canis Major, but due to an unfortunate scheduling mishap will now take place at Herrick Chapel in Grinnell, Iowa, an unassuming town which in time reveals itself to the faithful as the jewel of the prairie. The wedding will be officiated by whichever member of the Phylum Arthropoda happens to be nearest the bride at the time of the ceremony, which is set for 7:00 pm. Should the arthropod demur or such officiation present itself as impossible, for reasons legal or otherwise, the ceremony will be left unofficiated and allowed to do as it pleases.

The bride thoroughly objects to the concept of being given in marriage, and will therefore allow no such thing to happen. She will thus be attended by all of her guests, each of whom will have an equal responsibility in ensuring that no one, herself especially, is given or received for the duration of the ceremony. She will also be attended by her own thoughts and the sound of the breeze moving through the trees outside.

Certain sources report that, in ancient times, the word honeymoon invoked not a stale tradition buttressed by twin pillars of inertia and obligation and scoured of all joy by the ministrations of late-stage capitalism, but simply that time of year when honey was ripe for the harvest. Here we wish to use our platform to return this word, if for a moment, to its roots. Imagine yourself, in a younger world, waking in the dead of night on the eve of the Summer solstice. You walk out into the warm dark, dewy grass beneath your feet. You tilt your chin to the sky, and there it is: the honey moon. Imagine the feeling of bounty. Imagine the sound of bees.

Following the honey moon, Isabel plans to return home to her apartment and watch the sunlight move across the floor. Around 6:00, the light streaming through the west windows will illuminate the corner of the hallway next to the bookshelf, revealing a few tufts of dust. That will be just fine. Amen.