It wasn’t so much with a sense of trepidation you strolled as elegantly as you could in heels across the gravel outside the church, as a sense of dread.
In the overall scheme of things, the actual ceremony was the least unpleasant part of the whole ordeal. “Bride’s family or Groom’s family?” some non descript middle-aged relative asked, “uhhh… Bride… I guess” you replied, and she beckoned toward the pews on the left. For the next 90 minutes you held a sheet with unknown hymns on it, and you stared blankly at it and, guided by the elderly man standing next to you, flapped your mouth at moments that seemed reasonably appropriate. You got up. You sat down. You got up again. Not a moment too soon it was over… but the worse had just begun.
Because your highschool sweetheart turned into a doormat after 4 years of happy co-habitation, you parted ways after much sorrow. But 6 months later you were moving on, you were enjoying being single and independent - you were making up for lost time. In the midst of your new found freedom though, it seemed a large proportion of your friends had elected to surrender theirs. Over the last year an alarming number of them had tied the knot, and as the numbers of happy, married couples increased you felt increasingly awkward flying solo. As you were ushered toward a table at the back of the reception venue, where all the people the happy couple don’t know where else to put invariably get shoved, your anxiety rose. Get. Me. Out of here. Now.
Seated at the table of eight was the already embarrassingly drunken uncle, the bride’s boss from her old job and his breathtakingly dull wife, two childhood friends of the groom’s that he no longer associated with but who’s parent’s were best friends with his, and an aging, stone deaf great aunt. You took up your seat next to the old woman, politely introduced yourself, and said a quiet prayer that the seat to your right appeared to be empty. Once seated, you skolled the glass of faux champagne handed to you as you entered in a single gulp, and in one beautiful fluid motion, swapped your empty flute for a fresh one from the drink tray as it passed. As far as you could tell, not a soul noticed, and that gave you a certain smugness.
After about half an hour you began to feel somewhat more relaxed. The old lady had a bit of a sense of humour, and although neither of the childhood friends were really your type, at least one of them seemed to be working pretty hard to impress you from across the table. It was nice to be noticed. At some point you looked at the folded name card to your right and read the name on it, but it left no impression. Some other distant uncle you mused for a moment, before your attention turned again to scanning the room for the drinks tray.
Being somewhat distracted, you hadn’t noticed that someone was gently trying to pull out the chair next to you. As it bumped the leg of your own chair you suddenly turned around and looked up, and all of a sudden, were engulfed by a wave of panic. This soon passed, to be replaced by smoldering rage, as you realised who this seat had been kept for. It was him.
As he looked around the table at everyone, he smiled politely, still standing, then his eyes met yours. You could see him freeze, his eyes widen, and his puplis dilate. You waited for his mouth to open. You didn’t say a word, you just glared at him. He managed an awkward smile, then looked nervously away as he gingerly climbed into his chair next to you. Thank god the champagne had taken the edge off.
In fact, the small glass of mediocre white wine you’d downed as a filler-in had topped you up very nicely, and you were starting to feel just the slightest bit tipsy. Either that or suddenly everyone seemed better looking and funnier than they had an hour ago. You located the drinks waiter, and procured more happiness, then pondered exactly how you should deal with the awkward situation before you - or more specifically, seated to your right. But it was the old woman who suddenly, and unexpectedly, offered the perfect solution. She leaned toward you.
“So what does your husband do?” she asked. You faltered for a second as you realised she’d said it loud enough to get the attention of most people at the table. Your mind raced. You mouth began to form the word “he’s”, in readiness for the explanation that he wasn’t your husband - in fact he was no-one - just some cocktail chucking, good looking jerk. But the champers had fueled the flirt in you, and fired up your usually well hidden mischievous side. And it dared you to extract revenge for the drink throwing incident.
“Yes,” you said, turning toward him, and asked with journalistic aplomb, “What exactly is it you do, sweetie?”.
As you watched him fumble and look awkward, you felt a deep wave of satisfaction sweep over you. He was going to squirm. And you were going to watch.
And you were going to enjoy it.
( to be continued )
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