Wedding Bread

Orchestrated like the sweet, treat-producing hive of the honeybee, the organized chaos was flawless. Each person had a role and they each carried out the necessary tasks to fulfill it. Whether they were verbally instructed, given hand-written directions, or had an ingrained knowledge about this type of affair, I wasn’t about to ask.

Though I knew the bride and groom, I felt like an outsider. Before the wedding had started, I stood awkwardly in the dining room, wondering if I should claim a seat while my fiancé took pictures with the rest of the bridal party. The tables were numbered, but I couldn’t see a difference between one silver placard and the next that would designate assigned seating.

“Excuse me?” A young woman tapped my shoulder. Irrationally, I felt my stomach flip-flop, like I was going to be told I was doing something wrong by looking at the linen-covered tables. “Do you know where the bridal party will be sitting?”

I felt the heat in my cheeks from being put on the spot and I hoped it wasn’t burning through my foundation.

“I have no idea,” I said and laughed nervously, trying to recover. “I was told to sit at the groomsmen’s table, but I haven’t been able to find anyone to ask which one that is.”

“I guess this one is as good as any until someone tells us to move,” the girl said and sat down in the nearest chair. “I’m Monica.”

“Tess.”

I pulled out a chair next to Monica and sat down, glad to rest my high-heeled feet after wondering aimlessly for half an hour. There was no need to preserve room right now, so I made a pile of my phone, keys and wallet in front of the chair next to me, saving it for my fiancé. Monica followed suit, but kept her phone in her hands, swiping idly away.

“So, who are you here with?” I asked, breaking free of my introversion out of boredom. If I had seen her sitting alone at another table, I would have assumed she was a groomsman’s date. Her overall appearance was just a little better than if she had been a mere guest. No one wants to take pictures with a groomsman or bridesmaid and look like they are in casual dress compared to the formal of their partner.

“Edward,” she said. Swipe, swipe, swipe. “Who are you here with?

“David.” I reached for my phone then pretended like I was just checking the time when I saw Monica put hers down.

“They must be done with pictures.” Monica stood up and waved across the room. “There they are…and they are looking fine!”

I didn’t respond but smiled and waited for David to reach me. When he did, it was a flurry of handshakes, introductions and people leaving phone or keys to reserve their seat. No one knew if this was the table we were supposed to be at, but it became the table we chose. We all left the table, littered with our belongings, to go outside for the wedding ceremony.

People were coming from all directions: the south parking lot, the west parking lot, the trail by the river on the east side and the lower patio on the north. Everyone was streaming to the giant oak, in the middle of it all, to watch the betrothed commit and kiss. I watched walk his bridesmaid down the center aisle then step to the side where he would remain for the ceremony. It was almost mesmerizing – each couple walked down the aisle, the man and woman with linked arm, then the separated at the altar, and it happened again. In the end, they did the same thing to leave.

It was not as orderly for the guests to leave the ceremonial area. People left in ones, twos, threes and fours. No matter how many there were in a group, whether they knew each or not, they all tried to enter the dining room door at the same time. Once it was my turn to cross the threshold of the dining room, I felt the increased heat from the large amount of people that had filled it. It was surprising to see that people were not wandering around, looking for a seat like I had, but they were all seated or pulling out chairs to get seated.

Once the commotion settled down, food started appearing at the tables. I didn’t notice a waiter come by, but there was a basket of warm bread rolls and saucers of soft butter tempting me to ruin my appetite. David was talking to a groomsman across the table, I couldn’t remember his name, but it sounded like they both almost slipped while walking to the altar during the ceremony. Monica was engaged in conversation with Edward.

Of the hundred or two people in the room with me, I was without conversation. I slowly unrolled my silk napkin and pulled out the knife, trying to see if anyone else had started eating the bread yet. It seemed a person here or there had taken the daring move to eat first at their table, and now it was my turn. The roll parted easily in my hands, revealing a steaming white center. The crumb was springy and filled my nostrils with its sourdough smell.

“Oh yes,” I murmured and spread a thick dollop of butter on each side.

“Tess, what do you do?” the groomsman David had been talking to asked me from across the table, elevating his voice to cut through the din and making the rest of our table stop their conversations to listen.

“Hrm, mrm…” I mumbled through the large bite of buttery dough I was now masticating and held up a finger. The table laughed politely. “Sorry about that. I am a teacher.”

“Wow, that’s great.” The man nodded.

The question then went around the table. David squeezed my hand under the table, letting me know how monotonous that question, and the current conversation, was to him. It was interesting to see how close our circles really were. We all had the same mutual friend but, somehow, had remained no more than acquaintances, if not still strangers. It was easy to tell who had spent more time with one another by the conversation.

I hadn’t finished the second half of my bread roll when a waitress in black and white was placing a gold-gilded plate in front of my.

“Oh, goodness, thank you,” I said. My mouth was watering anew. The almond crusted tilapia was surrounded by steamed vegetables and rice pilaf. I looked up to see the same expression on the guests’ faces around my table. Can we eat?

With a silent agreement, we all started eating. The scrapes of knives and forks, glasses clinking and the merry laughter that only comes with satiation soon filled the dining hall. The beautiful plates no longer bore the chef’s masterpiece, but the remains of what was. Our strained conversations became more authentic and easy-going.

By the time dessert was served, I felt comfortable with the people at my table. No one could say how many glasses of wine or whiskey they had, nor how many times they saw someone fill up their glass, but no one ever saw the bottom. If they had, they would have seen an inscription from the newlyweds: Thank you for breaking bread with us.