"Merri," I said. "Listen to me. Webster will dump you, ditch you, scrap you, chuck you, abandon you, discard you. Right now, he's probably out with Collier or Compton or some tramp from Oxford. You're just another plume in his visor headpiece.
"He'll abridge you!" I continued. "He'll file you under M for merriment or merry maker, or messy. That's what Webster does. He draws you the size of a postage stamp, then he turns the page!"
"You're too late, Peter," she said, raising a ringed metacarpal. "We've recited nuptials."
"You'll come back!" I shouted. "You'll crawl back on your grasping forelimbs and kneeling leg joints! You two have as much chance together as a compacted sphere of frozen water in hell!"
She closed the door. That was the last time I saw Merri.
Of course, these days, she's the last word on everything, the famous Merriam Webster. Me? I'm lost, misplaced, missing, alone …
I loved her.
I just couldn't find the words.