The longer I watch the people at my wedding, the more I want to get the hell out of here. Most guests are already drunk. They come up to our table and mumble some form of gratulation, their speech slurry, their faces droopy. Simple townsfolk, all know each other, and none have any aspiration to make something different of their lives. Ever.
God, what a bunch of losers. To think that I’ll spend the rest of my life among these small-town nobodies as good and quiet housewife…
Mitch puts a huge piece of barbecued meat in his mouth and leans back, rubbing his belly. With full mouth and smacking lips he says, “Your folks sure now how to roast a cow.” Then he continues to chew with open mouth.
If it wasn’t for the case full of cocaine (—am I really thinking that?—) I’d get up right now and leave. My girlfriends jokingly told me that, no matter how cool and romantic and nice a man is, once you get married, the man-pig comes out and the fun’s over. Looking at that animal picking at his teeth with his fingernail, I’d say they were right.
“Mitch,” I say, bumping him with my knee to get his attention. “When are we going to leave? The party is going well, everyone is fed—including you”—stare of death but he doesn’t notice—“and no one would notice if we—“
Out of nowhere, Barb interrupts me: “Notice what?” Shit. I look up.Read More »