You had made a lot of bad choices in moments of extreme emotion, but this one was shaping up to be one of your worst.
When the invitation came in the mail for Paul's wedding, it wounded you. He wasn't supposed to find someone before you did, let alone marry them. Your split had been amicable, even if the relationship nowadays was largely the occasional phone call and the oft-promised-rarely-delivered in-person meet up for coffee and catch-up.
You had met Paul's girlfriend — check that, fiancee — a few times. She was tall, pretty, had a good job, good teeth, a perfectly fine body that looked as though it occasionally found itself inside a gym. If you were being petty, she was a poor man's version of you.
You couldn't help but make judgments. Paul and Aimee — yes, with two ees — had only been dating nine months. You and Paul had broken up six or so months prior to that after being together for two years. How the fuck was this chick worth marrying?
Had you given yourself a night's rest, you may have decided against attending. But Paul always said you lacked impulse control. (He didn't seem to mind when that side of you came out in the bedroom.)
"Yes, I will attend," you said to no one in particular. "And give me the fucking fish."
You crammed the reply card into the too-cutesy envelope and sealed it shut. You pinned it to your mailbox and forgot about it.
Until this Monday. The wedding, which seemed far away when you RSVP'd, was now right around the corner. Friday, to be exact. Who the fuck gets married on a Friday? Paul, that's who. He always was a stingy bastard. It annoyed the crap out of you when you were dating, although that relationship was doomed for other, bigger reasons.
The only thing you had done to even acknowledge this wedding — besides RSVP — was to buy a dress. It was a little outside your budget, but damn it flattered you in all the right places. It was black — classic — with a plunging neckline that highlighted your best feature. (Just in case people were unsure, the long vertical necklace you bought to accompany the dress should draw their eyes toward your beautiful, round breasts.) The dress was tight along your ass, so tight that you briefly wondered if dancing was going to be an issue.
You were going to make a statement with that dress, one that would have Paul's friends whispering, "I can't believe he passed on that fine piece of ass. Aimee's fine. But God damn, look at Janet."
Paul had not given you a plus one to this wedding — no surprise there — so you were going to the nuptials solo.
You had no plans of ending the night unaccompanied.
The ceremony was pleasant enough — tying the knot in a bucolic Adirondack area amidst the backdrop of a glimmering lake and some lushy green mountain tops. The reception area had that typical woodsy charm — lots of Eastern white pine, mounted game and furniture that was a reasonable facsimile of the Stickley stuff.
You checked out the dance floor before heading to the bar. That's where you encountered me, someone who looked at first blush your age and did not seem accompanied by any sort of significant other. I wasn't exactly your type, but this may not be the event to be too choosy.
I seemed to anticipate what you were there for.
"I hate when these floors are just kind of thrown in the middle of a rug, so it's nice to see a dancing space that's actually part of the floor plan," I said, turning toward you.
"Mmmhmm," you murmured, unsure how to continue this conversation -- or even if you wanted to.
"Look, I was just about to hit the bar. If you know Paul as well as I do, you know this is going to be a cash-only affair. Can I buy you a drink?" I asked.
"Sure. How do you know Paul?" you asked, as you trailed me to the bar. He's got kind of a cute butt, you thought. I may be able to work with this.
"Oh, we're cousins. I live near here, and he's from Massachusetts, so we don't hang out," I said. "But we're about the same age, so I've known him my whole life. Frankly, he's obligated to invite me and I'm obligated to say yes. What's your story?"
You cracked a smile. "Oh, Paul and I used to date."
Now it was my turn to smile. "You make a habit of attending a lot of exes' weddings? Is this some sort of closure thing?"
"No, uh, it's not like that. It's just...actually, I don't exactly know why I'm here."
"I know why you're here."
You raised an eyebrow and frowned a bit. "Oh really?"
"Yeah, totally."
"Ok, stranger. Since you know me so well, why don't you tell me why I'm here?"
"I'm sorry. That was a little presumptive of me. I've got a theory, that's all."
"Well, spit it out."
"Well, OK. You're dressed to the nines in an outfit that would make any man with a pulse take a second -- and third and fourth -- look. I think you want Paul to notice you and think, even for just a second, 'Did I blow it big time by not locking down that girl?'"
I hadn't hit the exact truth, but I had definitely brushed by it.
You decided to change the subject.
"So you think I'm worth a second look?"
"I think you're a knockout. But you didn't need a stranger to tell you that. You know it, even if you don't allow yourself to acknowledge it. And while a good look can get anyone's foot in the door, if you're a total bitch people aren't going to stick around."
"Are you saying that's why Paul left?"
"No. I'm saying I'd like to take the chance to find out whether Paul blew it big time."
"OK. You can start by buying me that drink you promised."
"Sure, what's your pleasure?"
We ordered drinks and resumed our "get to know you" chit-chat. At some point, the organizers pushed us toward our assigned tables. Paul and Aimee didn't do us the courtesy of seating us anywhere near each other; frankly, I think there are planets that are more closely aligned.
While I was stuck with my distant relatives and Great Aunt Millie from Aimee's side, you seemed to be enjoying yourself with another man. He appeared to be age-appropriate, maybe younger. And, maybe this is crazy, but he kind of looked like Paul. Whereas I was clean shaven, he had a well manicured beard. I was a tad chubby, especially in the stomach area. But this guy was chubby all around, which gave him a youthful appearance. Although I tried not to fixate on your table, he seemed to have some chemistry with you that I hadn't yet achieved.
At some point, I got sucked into a table story about DNA tests -- it turns out we're all descended from the same black woman, Millie swears -- and didn't notice you creep up to my table. You tapped my shoulder lightly and said, "Do you want to dance?"
I smiled widely and sprang from my seat, and grabbed the hand you extended as you led us both to the floor. My dance moves were subpar, but I was determined to fake confidence to remain in the good graces of easily the hottest woman at this reception. (In my time away from you, I definitely did a survey. There was one other girl -- Meghan, an aspiring painter who makes rent as a barista at a highly-trafficked Starbucks. But I'm pretty sure we're branches sprung from adjoining limbs, so that prospect was dead-on-arrival. Plus, she was a six -- maaaybe seven if I was being charitable. You were easily an eight.)
The DJ was spinning a good mix of danceable songs, until he decided to slow it down for the older demographic. As the ballad began, I gave you a look like, "Are we still doing this?" and you extended your hand to meet mine. I placed my other hand on your hip and we began slowly spinning.
