A Casual Look

Center your story around two people who meet at a wedding.

A casual look, a little wink

Can reveal just what you think …

(The Six Teens, 1956)

My name is Daniel Lassiter. Everybody calls me Dan. At least everybody did before the wedding. Since that episode, most people have put adjectives before my name with four letters. Still, it was the happiest day of my life and the strangest. All I did was answer the minister's question honestly. What was I supposed to do? Lie?

I’m in my late twenties. I didn’t have a serious girlfriend. I didn’t have any girlfriend, serious or otherwise. When I think about it honestly, I never did. I’d been through dozens of relationships, but none lasted more than a few hours. Some were over before they started. They all talked too much. Way too much.

I work at Columbia University in Manhattan. My title is Doctor of Philology. I am the head of the Philology department. I am also the only professor in the Philology department. I keep telling my colleagues this is not a coincidence. As we all know, Philology is the study of human speech, especially as the vehicle of literature and as a field of study that sheds light on cultural history. What could be more important? I’m sure all of us rank Portuguese Irregular Verbs penned by that giant of philological science Alexander McCall Smith as the greatest book ever written. No argument there.

You can imagine my impatience with women who incessantly babble about nothing. I fear they are threatening the very foundation of civilization, not to mention my livelihood and my sanity.

I remember one young lady a friend introduced me to at a party at Columbia. I was particularly enamored with her physically and decided to pull out all the stops. On our first date, I took her to Hoexters, one of the most elegant and expensive restaurants on the east side of Manhattan. During appetizers, she asked me what I did at Columbia. I was halfway through explaining the duties of the head of the Philology department when she jumped up and ran out of the restaurant, screaming with her hands over her ears.

Unfortunately, this was not an isolated incident. Several famous East Side eateries had asked me to please never return, at least not with a first date.

I know what you're wondering. What did I do for sex? I was a regular customer at the famous Bojkot Party Girls escort service. I was well known there, and the powers that be knew I had one rule that must never be broken. The escorts were not allowed to speak in my presence.

But I digress, back to the wedding in question. It was a beautiful day in June. The breeze off the ocean was just enough to cool everything off without being strong enough to render the wedding paraphernalia all to hell. I’d only been to one beach wedding previously. That one was at Cape May, New Jersey, on Memorial Day, and the offshore wind hit the beach in mighty howls. The women who had spent much time and money in the beauty salon saw their investments blown away in a fraction of a second. It seemed Mother Nature was offended and determined to disrupt the whole scene. It was all quite comical

.

George Puller, the groom of the wedding at hand, had been my best friend in college. After graduation five years earlier, we'd gone our separate ways, pursuing careers on different coasts. George settled in Southern California, La Jolla to be exact, loving the lifestyle and the climate. I live in New York City—the Big Apple. I firmly believe anybody who lives anyplace else is just kidding. George was constantly bugging me to fly to LA for a visit. I always declined using the old Woody Allen observation that I would require several nausea sickness bags after the plane landed at LAX.

We all stayed at the Hotel del Coronado of Some Like it Hot fame in San Diego. The wedding was scheduled for the next day on Coronado Beach, right in front of the hotel. I wasn’t in the wedding party. Like I said, George and I had been out of touch for quite a while, and I'm sure he had a whole platoon of closer friends than I at that point.

The first time I laid eyes on George’s bride, Maria, was when she slowly proceeded down the aisle on the wedding day. Oh. My. God. It was like she was floating on the dress of white. I swear her feet never touched the red carpet. She was a Mexican goddess. I couldn’t help but notice her flawless olive skin, rich, full lips that begged to be kissed, eyes as black as coal that flashed when she smiled, and the body of an Olympic athlete. I knew I was staring. I didn’t care.

Was it my imagination or did she look my way as a slight smile played across those luscious lips? I didn’t know what else to do so I impulsed. I winked. Her smile broadened and she winked back. What the heck was going on here? I looked behind me thinking maybe she was communicating with someone she knew who was standing behind me. The seats behind me were empty.

As Maria reached the makeshift altar on the beach, George took his place by her side. The minister placed a hand on each of their shoulders and said, in his most resounding "voice of God" tone: "Should anyone present know of any reason why George and Maria should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

I slowly rose to my feet. The onlookers issued a collective gasp.

“Dan?” George stammered. “What the hell …”

“I’m in love with Maria,” I said in a quivering voice, “and I think she’s in love with me.”

I held out my hand. Maria glided away from the altar, straight up to me, and held my hand.

I looked into her eyes. “Come with me to New York,” I said.

Maria smiled. “No hablo inglés,” she replied.

“Perfect.” I smiled back.

We walked away from the scene on the beach, hand in hand, leaving the onlookers in stunned silence. We took an Uber to SAN and caught the first flight to JFK.

I took over Maria’s ESL training and empowered her with a small but impressive English vocabulary. We lived happily ever after.