A Wedding

Lips tingling from entirely too many alcoholic beverages. Alone. I went alone to a wedding today. My high school sweetheart's. It was beautiful. It was the type of wedding I could never have given him. White dress for the bride. Peach dresses for the bridesmaids. Cake. And there was the chicken dance. And Cotton-eyed Joe. The bride was lovely. They really do love each other. How cynical was I to imagine, juxtaposed against this magnificent bounty of love -- the other side of it -- what are their fights like? -- do they fight over money? over jealousy? over freedom? so curious. He's straight-laced. She's less so. He's predictable. She's no virgin. (she's been married before.) My mind wandered to his vow of chastity (one of the reasons I couldn't remain with him). I wonder how disappointed she'll be when they consummate this marriage. I hope they've already broken his vow. I hope they've had sex numerous times, and in numerous positions. I hope it doesn't become a source of conflict. I'm happy for them. Hope they're happy for each other.

Saw friends from the past. Two boys, still boys in my heart. Crushes past, crushes gone. Cute. Sexy. But boys in my heart, nonetheless. They really don't know me at all.

Didn't dance. I'm not sure I know how to do "wedding dances". So timid, so restrained they are. Mere xerographic images of what natural dance is for me. Dance is the precursor to sensual exploration of the body. Hot, sweaty, oozing with all the things that everyone would love to touch but can only see, can only smell, can barely feel. Can't dance like that at a wedding. It's the bride's day. And everything must remain restrained. Catholic church says "be fruitful" yet don't party.

Laughed a lot. Smiled even more. Rites. They keep things moving steadily forward. Other friends have had children. Stories abound about suckling infants, midnight crying, particular stories about particular instances of what this baby did and what that child didn't do. I was quiet. Cracked jokes here and there. Just skimming the surface of conversation. My job, your job, your ex-fiancee, my H. Where is he? Gone. In another country.

Then after. Irish pub with good girlfriend. Good beer. Good company. Good conversation. Open open open. Wanted to kiss her eyebrow. Don't know why. Then after after. My fingers smelled of lingering smoke. Memories of a past lover in particular -- his fingers smelled like ashen flesh. He smoked like a chimney. His fingers tasted like bittermelon. And he was my Lover, if ever I knew one.

Now, in a strange home, crash. Strange computer, crash. Strange bed, crash. Bleary. Come back later for a more comprehensive analysis of my experiences today.