Surviving a friends wedding: Caught in the wedding cross
In lieu of a date at Dave and Nikki’s wedding reception, I have a mostly empty clamshell, two green plastic sword toothpicks, and a chicken bone. These are almost as good as human company. At least, they are until a courteous member of the waitstaff insists upon relieving me of the remnants of my nervous eating and I have to start fresh. I accept that it is my own fault for RSVPing as dateless since my preferred companion is an ocean away. Despite the glut of women in my life, I lacked the imagination that could fathom any being willing to provide me better companionship than the friends I make from hors d’oeuvres. Speaking of which, someone needs to bring me another stuffed clam so my appetizer friend can have a head.
My wallowing is not so bad until the head waiter, seeing that I am sitting at a tiny table, nursing the diet soda I was fool enough to order before the bar opened, proclaims to everyone within earshot that I am alone and that they ought to take pity on me in about as many words. I stammer that I have friends, they just happened to be busy having just been married, and look down at the plastic sword that came with my latest meatball but quickly decide that it is a woefully inadequate weapon with which to exact a murder/suicide. No one responds to his exhortation, forcing my solitude into their awareness and rendering it pathological and pitiable where it was once simply ignored. Awwww!
I am grateful beyond words when everyone is shuffled into the dining room. There, at least, I am free from my empty table. In fact, according to the place cards I scanned before entering, I am seated exclusively with people who have had the foresight to bring dates, but I am happy enough chatting to the middle aged woman across from me who has brought her twentysomething daughter (one of Nikki’s childhood friends) as her date. I get on well enough with both of them that we make idle conversation about school and jobs, until I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn and see the judge who married Dave and Nikki an hour before standing over me with a smile spreading his lips.
“Hi…?” he begins, offering me his hand and hoping I will respond with my name, which I do.
He introduces himself, though I know him well enough. “Thomm? This is my niece,” and he shoves her toward me. She is a cute girl, brown hair and soft body, but my immediate instinct is to instruct her on prepositional phrases and the use of monologues in Hamlet. I understood from the man’s introduction
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