Weddings and Then Happy Endings

Dean slides sideways and slaps his hands together, yellow button-up shirt matching my silk dress, smile and shoulders rising with Electric. He moves back, fists punching the air in slow motion, feet weaving in and out. Coming forward, he does a little spin. He's my one-time date at my cousin's wedding. I'm the skinny maid of honor with a crazy up-do and thick-rimmed, brown glasses. He moved the car so I wouldn't have to step in the mud, and then opened my door, explaining that he's still an old fashioned guy. I told him to stay that way. There's not many left.

The bride sits beside me watching with her cake, lace dress and regret. Her mother smoked a joint before the ceremony. We're not dancing to the electric slide again. Soar feet strapped with heels are difficult to maneuver. I'm champagne buzzed with an aching neck. The muscles tensed when I tried to prevent myself from blacking out while standing close to the altar, watching a tall man put a gold thing on my cousin's finger. After the ceremony a photographer snapped pictures and the rest of us headed to the fire house for the reception of salad and ziti and tradition. I was forced to walk in dramatically, arm linked with the burly best man's, all eyes watching and sappy music playing over the speakers. Later I collected money from strangers who danced with the bride. I was supposed to shuffle each person along, keep the long line moving, but I have a problem talking to strangers and an even bigger problem telling them what to do. Someone took over for me. The hell ended and dancing began. My cousin's new husband smashed cake on her face and she smashed some back. A sugar-coated foreshadowing of what was to come later.

Best time we ever had, Dean says two months later, face illuminated by fire light and the flicker of mosquitoes.

I'm draped in a lawn chair by my family's fire pit in the back yard, bare feet dangling over one side, loose hair flung over the other. We're cooking cheese weenies and I hadn't seen Dean since the wedding. Now we're rekindling memories while my parents sip beer. I smile, remembering the red helium balloon bouncing against my knee after the reception, the dancing, the bride's long face and her lace gown soiled at the edges. Two years later divorce will slip from her lips over burrito dinners, and I'm glad I have no need to utter that word.

Dean and I were dressed in yellow with no commitment or shiny bands tinting our fingers, no delicate designs sweeping over rented room floors, only singleness and blueberry soda by a fire pit later. My cousin picks her husband's empty beer cans and sweaty socks from the floor. In summers Dean and I embark on walks down long country roads, sunlight splashing our backs and the wide, yellow fields specked with cows, free hands swinging un-synchronized.