The Wedding Cake

The first thing I noticed was the improper knot on his tie. He chose a large knot. It doesn’t fit. Every other man at the reception has gone with a small knot, which is appropriate for a lean tie. This tells me that the Best Man has never attended a proper wedding. He has never been to a wedding held by the sea. Where the ocean is in the background as the couple exchange vows. Where the women will wrap shawls around themselves as they make their way inside the very nice hotel for the reception. Where hors d’oeuvres will have cost more than entrees at a halfway decent restaurant. The Best Man opted for a large knot, and he doesn’t even realize how foolish he looks.

I would cry for him if I could cry, but even then, I might ruin my frosting. I was assembled over the course of seventeen hours. A baker nearly went mad creating me. The Bride wanted a thousand strawberry roses all over me. She said to spare no expense, and from the look of the festivities, she meant it. I’ve seen hundreds of weddings in my time. Every time a wedding cake is consumed, it finds itself waking up on a table in yet another bakery. I can’t exactly call it reincarnation, because all I know of returning to life is what I overheard a drunk finance guy explaining to a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader in 1993. She did not go home with him, and I was already halfway eaten. It was a nice wedding, but it wasn’t as nice as this one. The Best Man’s knot being the only exception.

He only appears to have had one drink to steel his courage, and he’s making his way over to one of the tables by the open bar. A woman is sitting there by herself. She’s the Maid of Honor, but she and the Bride seemed to have had some kind of falling out, because she’s been refusing food all day and not speaking with anyone. I’ve seen many friendships end between brides and their maidens. It would seem to me that the smart thing to do would be to ask someone you despise to be at your side on your wedding day. That way when all is said and done, you’ll just hate someone you already hated. The Maid of Honor hates her dress. That much I can tell. I can’t say I blame her. The fit is wrong and the color is nauseating. It’s a sort of tinted salmon. She looks like a bloated fish that’s washed up on shore. The poor thing did her own makeup, and that might be the only salvageable part of the look. Meanwhile, the Bride looks flawless, but I suppose that’s how it’s meant to be.

The Best Man approaches the Maid of Honor, and asks if the seat next to her is free. The entire table is free. There’s nobody sitting there. We’ve had the dancing point of the reception. All the stuffed chicken and overdressed salad has been consumed. Even at a nice wedding, there’s no escaping stuffed chicken and dry fish. The parade of characters has already entered to rousing applause and pop songs from the 70’s and 80’s. The Mother of the Groom danced with him while a song about growing up played. The Father of the Bride danced with her while she cried, and the song was somewhat creepy. All about a little girl loving her Daddy. I don’t know why they can’t just write a normal song about women and their fathers, but here we are. The first dance was to Ed Sheeran and the Groom whispered something to the Bride. She smiled, but then leaned in to say something to him that made his face go white. He then moved his hand further up her back, and didn’t say anything for the rest of their dance. I’m never around long enough to see how the marriages turn out, but something tells me this one will end around three or four years from now, and a personal trainer will be the cause of its demise.

The Maid of Honor has invited the Best Man to sit, and so he has. He attempts to make her laugh by telling several stories. Each one is less funny than the one before it. Strangely enough, the worse the stories get, the more the Maid of Honor seems to enjoy them. She knows that he’s trying to cheer her up, and even though he’s doing a terrible job, there’s something endearing about how bad he is at offering comfort or support. It would be like a chihuahua trying to do the job of a Saint Bernard on the side of a mountain.

This is not the first time I’ve witnessed a Maid of Honor falling in love with a Best Man, but I can’t remember the last time it seemed so…sweet. Maybe the baker put too much sugar in my second tier. A catchy dance song about a woman who breaks up happy marriages, and because most people don’t bother to listen to lyrics, everybody is on the dance floor, including the seven-year-old flower girl and the ninety-year-old grandmother of the Bride. I remember in the 90’s when so many couples would share their first dance to “Saving All My Love for You,” a song about adultery, and how I thought it was such an odd choice. The music must overtake the message when you’re a human being. As a cake, I never lose sight of the message. If a birthday cake forgets to have “Happy Birthday” written across it, then what is it? Just a pile of cooked batter and buttercream.

The song seems to have worked its magic on the Best Man and Maid of Honor. He offers her his hand, and she only shakes her head twice before letting out a little laugh, and accepting his proposal. They make their way onto the dance floor where they end up between the Bride’s brother who has been talking to people about Crypto all night and his date, a grad student who is far too young for him, but also much more mature than he’ll ever be. From across the room, the Bride sees the Maid of Honor dancing with the Best Man, and she jabs the Groom with her elbow to make sure he sees it as well. He smiles and begins to pump his fist in the air, clearly thrilled at the prospect of the two dancing, and so the Bride jabs him again, at which time he puts his fist down, then his chin, and begins asking if he can look at his phone because he wants to see how the Red Sox are doing.

The Best Man is not a good dancer, and like some very intelligent bad dancers, he substitutes technique for showmanship. His panache includes dipping the Maid of Honor much too low to the ground, but never letting her fall. He spins her and then has her spin him. He throws in tango and salsa even though the song doesn’t call for it. Soon, others are watching him and cheering him on. He’s the center of attention. The Maid of Honor does not like being the center of attention, but she doesn’t mind being next to the center of attention. That’s probably how she wound up being best friends with the bride. When the song is over, everyone applauds. Then, a slow song comes on. The DJ is a smart man. He understands the rhythm of a reception. I’m nearly halfway gone. People have been coming up to me all night to take seconds--and occasionally--thirds. I’m happy that they like me. I wish I could tell the baker, but he’s at a bar miles away singing karaoke. I’m sure he has a lovely voice.

The slow song the DJ plays is all about second chances. I don’t know if the Maid of Honor or the Best Man need a second chance, but they don’t leave the floor when the song comes on. Instead, the Maid of Honor puts her arms around the Best Man’s neck. They begin to sway, and someone in the hall adjusts the lights so they’re not quite so bright. From the windows along the left side of the room, there’s a blue glow coming in as the moonshine starts to make its way into the ocean. The Best Man tells the Maid of Honor she looks beautiful. She won’t kiss him now, but there will be a kiss at the end of the night. I won’t see it, but I’m certain of it.

Just as the Bride’s cousin who’s been talking all night about how this is her first night without her kids in years comes over to grab another slice of me, I notice the Maid of Honor begin to undo the Best Man’s tie. Rather than fix it, she lets it hang loose, and then undoes two of the buttons on his shirt. I don’t mind any of it. He looks better this way, and it’s that time of night. Jackets are being left on chairs. Women are barefoot after exiling their heels. Every so often, romance decides to live in the casual rather than the sacred. The Bride has already gone off to change into a two thousand dollar pantsuit and the Groom is in the men’s room with two of his friends talking about what a nightmare the Bride has been all day. The Best Man is not in there with them, because he’s dancing with the Maid of Honor. If it were up to me, he would go find a flower, and put it behind her ear. He’d spin her around one more time, and then ask if she wanted to go for a walk outside the hotel on the path that’s right above the ocean. If I had my way, he’d point out the bridge and the lighthouse and all the cars coming and going with so many people in them that will never meet each other and never know the pleasure of a slow dance with a beautiful woman who abandoned her shoes long ago.

I would thoroughly enjoy all of that, but then again--

It’s not my wedding, is it?