You know what’s worse than a family dinner? I’ll tell you: a fucking wedding dinner. Every random relative that you’ve ever encountered once, three millenniums ago, and whose existences are perfectly inconsequential to you but apparently primordial to the familial circle, reunited in the same room. Annoyance grated me as I observed people, whose blood was the only thing we had in common, hypocritically saluting each other. The few who bravely, or foolishly, tried to approach me were met with blunt disdain and acid replies. I obviously did not want to be here and it showed. As I sat at the table I was assigned to, I realized that this wedding dinner was really a purgatory trial.
Facing me, my sister’s lethally boring fiancé was already blabbering about his job and how exhausting it is to be a dentist. I could never, for the life of me, remember this guy’s name (in my defense, men tended to breeze through my sister’s life at an alarming frequency) and so I had settled on Toothy. It wasn’t the most flattering nickname one could conjure, but he didn’t inspire enough sympathy for me to come up with something better. Also, he had abnormally large and irregular teeth, a trait that would prevent me from ever consulting him if a dental emergency arose. As I sat, forced to listen to his anecdote, I couldn’t help but notice that he took an unhealthy pleasure in describing the way he brutally extracted a certain Mr. Plantfey’s malignant molar. He seemed to believe that it was a ravishing story, but his delusions were brutally crushed by Grandma’s yawn. He looked over at my sister for some support, which struck me as hilarious.
Said sister was inspecting the state of her cakey makeup with a silvery teaspoon. I smirked and laughed internally at the thought that the inflated reflection of her head in the cutlery was the perfect illustration for her bloated sense of self-importance. She was a comically vainglorious being whose lack of brain cells attracted the strangest kinds of suitors. Sensing Toothy’s gaze on her, she turned, leaned closer and licked off some shepherd’s pie residue lingering on the corner of his mouth. I urgently needed to bleach my eyeballs. My abused orbs fixed themselves on the table and its content. What a mistake. My nose was immediately gripped by the nauseating smell emanating from an appalling, leaky cheese that could not be identified. I tried to take a sip from my glass of wine to distract me from the hellish position I was in. Again, a mistake. The cheap beverage itched my palate and scorched my throat as I awkwardly gulped it. I had to move and get the hell out of there.
As I stood up, I lightly jostled Grandma’s shoulder. She mumbled something in her sleep and drooled a bit more over her napkin, her dentures slowly falling. I envied her absolute carelessness. Time could suspend its flight and the weather could freeze the ever changing patterns of the tide, but Old Maggie would remain immovable, like a barren land that has been overplowed. I kept on walking until I reached the exit of the tent. A peaceful prairie spread out in front of me. Its symmetry was disturbed by a decrepit manor which worryingly looked like it was about to collapse. The northern wall of the building was covered in ivy and thick bushes. It offered a delicate shelter against the reception’s bustle. I carefully navigated between the branches and twigs, squeezing my body through the bush. The soft noise of the leaves brushing against my ears was inexplicably soothing. My crochet dress was grabbed by small buds and thorns, as if the bush were clinging to me. It oddly felt like I was merging with nature, entering a new realm of sanctity. As I stood there, lost in the heart of the bush, the echo of my thoughts swelled. My eyelids closed in a desperate attempt to seize their essence.
A small eternity passed. The scarlet, molten sun, whose rays pierced the thick protection of the bush, had started its descent. In the silence of my serendipitous haven, I heard muffled noises to my right. Some branches shuffled. Curious, I got closer. A loud moan erupted, followed by sloppy, wet sounds. Two people were savagely kissing each other, hidden in the bush like teenagers. I took it as a sign that it was time to return to the party. I extracted myself from my impromptu hideout and reluctantly rejoined the dinner.
Nothing much had changed in my absence. Uncle Dick was having a passionate debate with Toothy, accusing Bush’s government of spying on him. To my left, I noticed the groom was sitting alone, still, looking a bit lost. My attention was immediately redirected towards the tray of sweets placed on our table. I was already attacking my thirteenth macaron when screaming suddenly erupted from the back of the room. Uncle Dick’s ex-wife, Paula, ran to the center of the tent and shouted, “OH MY LORD…Lizzie was making out with her bridesmaid. I saw the two of them go at it in the bush. Sweet baby Jesus, on her wedding day!”
Her eyes narrowed as she recognized the man standing in front of her. She pointed a finger at him and accused, “Robert, I always knew your daughter had no morals. It was to be expected I suppose, considering the whore you chose to marry!”
Uncle Robert seemed on the verge of implosion. His cheeks darkened significantly. As an unfortunate waiter passed in front of him, he grabbed a slice of red velvet cake and threw it at Paula. This gesture unleashed pure chaos in the tent. In mere minutes, the boring wedding dinner had turned into an all-out brawl. All the simmering familial tension and resentment exploded as people seized the opportunity to take revenge for some past wrongdoings they had endured.
Motionless in a corner, I was still processing the fact that I had been witness to a passionate sapphic kiss involving none other than the bride when she suddenly appeared, disheveled. She was this white silhouette emerging from the front entrance, illuminated by the soft light of the candles and framed by flower arrangements of lilac wisteria. She swiftly stopped short at the sight in front of her, her mouth agape and her cheeks blossoming with red buds. A visible shiver raked her body. She looked at her husband.
“I’m…I just…I’m sorry Victor, but I can’t do it. I love you, I really do. But not like this. Not the way you love me, not the way you deserve to be loved. To me, it’s always been girls.”
Her soft voice echoed in the unsettling silence that befell the tent upon her entrance. For a second, it seemed to me that we were all locked in a moment, suspended in the space-time continuum. However, the fragile lull was broken by a grating rattle emitted by Old Maggie, who had unconsciously resurfaced at the most inconvenient time.
The bride tore her veil off and turned on her heels. Sounds resumed as
shellshocked guests slowly started to leave. I, too, ended up on my feet, walking towards the exit. As I was crossing the threshold, I stopped briefly and stared at the crushed veil, darkened by faded footprints and brown mud. A tiny green twig was attached to the lace. Somewhere in the background, a champagne flute shattered on a white cloth. Everybody moved on.