Wednesday, October 3, 2012

if the shoe fits

I'm following the suited and sauntering boys barefoot to the bar, heels in hand. The Columbus sidewalk is wide and warm; the sky is bright and low.

Under the mirrored ceiling a wide-mouthed tumbler gets the best of me and I spill whiskey down my neck. "Oh God," says Jack, "not this again." He has already spent a half-hour helping me salvage the dress after an earlier mishap with a leaky iron. Daan obtains a stack of napkins and a glass of seltzer water from the smokey-eyed barkeep, who is not impressed. I blot vigorously. We depart.

I switch to $14 flats in the church pew during an opportune swiveling of the audience for the entrance of the bridesmaids. Their hair appears somehow buttressed, which is architecturally interesting but not sufficient distraction to prevent me from crying, per usual, the second I catch sight of the bride. She's both dazzling and dazzled; I'm so charmed by this I'm practically asthmatic. Despite knowing perfectly well this would happen I have not thought to bring tissues and resort instead to dabbing my eyes with balled-up napkins from the bar.

There's enough whiskey on them still it vaguely stings.

* * * * *
"You can have this," the somber flower-girl announces. She's unpinned a white rose from her frock (it's a frock, when you're young, isn't it?) and put it in my hand.

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