In our matching gowns the five of us were as good as interchangeable. Identities are stripped away and anyone in the crowd sees you as one. I am a bride's maid. I may be friend, cousin, sister, etc. of the bride. It is one of the rare few occasions where several women are willing to submit themselves for a period of time to another woman for appropriate use. Your obligations carry from a few months prior until just after reception introductions. Then you are set free into the masses of the celebration.
Such is where I stand.
Our first course is served and my clones and I sit picking through the plate before me and chatting uneasily. Some of us have known each other for years, some have only ever spoken via email and brief wedding related meetings.
I take notice of one of the maids, younger than I by about 6 years. She sits more uncomfortably in her skin than even I, despite I know those around her are a more familiar crowd to her. I offer her a sympathetic glance from across the table which she blinks away from with a slight flush of cheek. My mind records a mental note of the reaction and I go back to fussing with my salad, pretending to be involved in the conversation at hand.
I interject a random comment here or there, in effort to continue with my charade. My shy counterpart offers nothing but an occasional giggle or nod. We catch one another in occasional glances which appear to be of varying intent, although I think nothing of it. I am more than aware of a young girls comfort toward another being misinterpreted.
The evening continues. Those having taken full advantage of the open bar are now gyrating in mixed rhythms on the dance floor. She and I sit silently at the table, watching the excitement around. I recognize a younger version of myself in her and I sympathize. I know her mind is whirring with what she thinks she ought to be doing but her muscles frozen unwilling to do them. So, she sits in defeat. I take a sip of my drink and cross my legs. In these years I've learned to be comfortable in my skin. I enjoy watching and can sit easily doing so, even alone. I am glad to have the company though, however silent. Or, perhaps I am more joyed to offer her the company as I know this is harder for her than for me.
Curiosity gets the best of me, and I position myself that I may watch her out of the corner of my eye. I study her careful, hesitant, and almost anxious glances she throws in my direction. I wonder what she sees in me as she looks; does she herself? She takes occasional uneasy sips of her wine as she glances around the room. I begin to notice a pattern in her wandering glances. There are 3 people in the room that her eyes continuously follow.
One is a waitress who bustles through the crowd carting off drinks and used dishes. The combination of her hair cut, glasses, and motion would tell even the most untrained eye that her sexual appetites lead toward less than conventional fare.
The second is who I have learned is aunt to the groom and mother to the flower girl and ring barer.
The third is said aunt's life partner and second mother to the two children.
I see now that perhaps the intent of previous caught glances were not in fact misinterpreted. I know what she sees in me now, the one detail I failed to see in her due to her great effort to keep it unknown. Thoughts are not confused, rather terribly resolute. Her eyes drift from the waitress and lock on mine as I sit studying her intently. Her mouth opens but the words retreat to the back of her throat. Her eyes bounce back and forth in a common gesture one surrenders while searching for an unspoken answer. In that moment I know, and she knows that I do. Her cheeks fill with blood until the redness is overwhelming. Our stare breaks as she forcefully commands herself to look away. Her eyes now downcast, she stares at her trembling right hand on the table cloth.
I turn away from her as I silently gasp. "Oh my God, no one else knows." A voice echoes within me. I am angered at myself for making such an intrusion into her unprepared mind like that. I shake my head at myself and turn gently wanting to offer an apologetic glance to conclude our silent conversation.
When I turn I find she is already up from the table. Drink in hand she crosses the dance floor. Midway through, she turns behind to stare directly to me. It is only the briefest moment I have to discern her intent;, difficulty is thrown as tinder to the fire with all the motion of the dance floor between she and I. There is fear in her eyes, and anxiousness. There is something else, something I can't grasp as she turns to leave, something that begs me to follow and investigate.
I follow after her, and reach the hall just in time to catch a glimpse of her shoe as she reaches the top step to the bridal suite. At the top of the stairs is a large room where the bridal party hides during the guest's cocktail hour. There are a few clothed tables with chairs, plenty of mirrors for fixing makeup, and an unmanned bar in the corner. I suspect the room is used for smaller occasions.
I reach the top of the stairs and she is leaning on the bar, staring blankly, and sipping her drink. I grasp the rail as I walk around it and toward the bar. She hears me enter, or perhaps just senses me, and turns instantly in my direction. I don't know why I have followed her, or what events my mind sees happening. I try not to focus on this. I move with instinct alone.
