Ms. Mimosa

She had finished her third mimosa of the morning when she was called upon to help get the bride dressed. As her friend stepped into the ballgown she would have never chosen to wear, she thought of her boyfriend. With lowered inhibitions, the idea of sneaking off to the groomsmen’s chamber grew more appealing. However, she had a duty to serve: to support her friend in giving up her freedom for a shared health insurance policy and ungrateful children to worsen global warming.

With ten minutes before line-up, Ms. Mimosa got dressed. No one else finds it odd that we all paid for and are all wearing the same dress that was picked out by someone else? After years of her mother rolling her eyes at her third-wave feminist ideals, she knew better than to share her true thoughts. Instead, she swallowed her pride with a bit of water. Yes, she knew she had to stay hydrated in order to survive today’s itinerary.

Nine minutes later, she saw her boyfriend in suit pieces tailored to his body, looking scrumptious. Like how their hugs fell into place or how puzzle pieces fit together. The only thing keeping her from leaving with him and having uncoordinated sex in their car was the maid of honor. She would never let it slide. She hadn’t slept for three days straight, running around and measuring the angles of the men’s boutonnieres.

They then hooked arm in arm. Third in line, not too bad. She turned back and faked a smile to the bride. Maybe she’s with child, and they’re using this whole show as a cover-up. It was time for their entrance. At the rehearsal dinner, she faked her deepest gratitude to the happy couple for her mother “not being able to make it.” Last year, her mother cried seeing her and her boyfriend attend another marital ritual as guests. She could only imagine the most dramatic and unbearable response for their feature in this bridal party. She would not let it happen.

Despite the pastor’s lack of pizzazz, people were crying. Yes, cry for these individuals conforming to a social script forced on them. Their poor brainwashed selves and their soon-to-be brainwashed babies. She skipped off with her boyfriend and readied for a night of free drinks, but no amount of affordable libations could redeem the clumsy toasts interrupting her fun.

Between the amateaur DJ and lukewarm mashed potatoes, this bridesmaid persuaded herself that more drinking was the most appropriate solution. As her filter deteriorated and line dancing grew popular, our sour lady stared and pouted toward the newlyweds.

“Babe,” she started.

“Yeah?” Her boyfriend replied.

“Should we get married?”

“If that’s what you want,” he responded, as he shooed away the catering staff member who pumped a straight line of vodka cranberries to his girlfriend.

Her pout became so dramatic she drooled a bit. Her designated driver gave her a napkin.

“See?” She started. “We’re good together.”

They were good together. The lady spontaneous for the orderly lord. Regardless, she looked upon matrimony with great disdain. He knew not to mention it. No matter how intoxicated she was, he never mentioned it. No matter how much the ring in his pocket weighed, he never mentioned it.

***

“How’s your steak?”

“Good. Did you want to try some?”

The two adults ate from their respective plates as the candle between them fluttered with romantic ambience, both of them unfazed.

“Did you see it’s Brittany and Thomas’s anniversary today?”

“Really? It’s already been a year?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed before sawing off another bite of ribeye.

He peered at her. She counted her pieces of chicken and green beans. He counted with her. Cold food never bothered him as much as numerically balanced meals pleased her. As she lifted her eyes and grabbed her wine glass, she smiled at him.

“Will you marry me?”

She swallowed, put her glass down, and looked at him. “Honey.” Her shoulders sank.

“I know,” he started. “But it feels right.”

“But I can’t.”

“Will you at least consider it for a few days?”

“I did the last time you asked.”

“Then, what are we doing?”

“Loving each other.”

“But what are we doing next?”

“Loving each other.”

“But shouldn’t we just do it at this point? We’re basically married already.”

“ You know I can’t do that.”

There’s nothing quite as depressing as a duet of forks.

***

She never cared for babies, yet here she was snacking on pink and blue appetizers. With her back against the wall, she observed all that was in front of her. She did not miss his entrance. She did not stare at him. She did eat another profiterole. Her contempt for tradition was sponsored by mimosas for three years now. He looked handsome.

He told his new lady to not accompany him. Not that he determined her every move. Rather he protected another. Honestly, he protected all parties involved. No way to ensure a safe confrontation. His most pressing concern was to find someone to talk to, a distraction from the familiar woman leaning against the wall. 

They shuffled around the room as if part of a wide-spread Regency dance. The two kept each other in their peripheral vision. They would maintain an equal distance at all times. With another mimosa, the separation became smaller. With another text from his new lady, the space shrunk. By the time the couple of the hour sliced the cake to reveal pink frosting inside, our once separated lord and lady were applauding side by side. Neither of them enthusiastically.

“How are you?” She asked.

“I’m good. And you?”

“Good.”

They turned back to the action, but the show had finished. The curtain was drawn. Now, people were forced to talk to one another again.

“It was nice to see you.” She left her glass on the nearest table, dashed for the coat check, grabbed her belongings, and pushed through the French doors. She vowed to never see him again.