Free A Wedding Story by Dee Tenorio Page A

fungus exists.
    You are the slime that grows in swamps that even acid can’t break down—”
    “How long do you plan to keep this up, Rhubarb?”
    “Why?”
    “Because I was going to hail down a bottle of beer and I figured you might get thirsty having your mouth open so much.”
    “Make it a white wine and I’l keep it short.”
    “No, you won’t, but it might slow you down. Be right back.” How he managed to get such a lanky body out of a chair that graceful y would always be a mystery to her. The man was one length of something connected to another length. And that tux should be il egal. Or at least have some sort of warning on it. Caution: long exposure can cause blindness.
    Or stupidity.
    Ruth Anne looked to the faces across from her on the round table. Three girls, three boys.
    Alternating. The girls were al trying to make eye contact in some way or another. The boys were taking gleeful pleasure in stopping them. Until Bobby left. Now al eyes were on Ruth Anne.
    For the first time ever, she couldn’t wait for him to come back.
    “What are you doing here?” A little blonde girl asked in a not-so-conspiratorial whisper.
    “Yeah? Is that your husband?” A good sized boy asked in a loud voice.
    “Are you divorcing? My parents are divorcing.
    They don’t talk nice either.” The wide-eyed little redhead asked, a picture of pity. Bobby needed to hurry up.
    “They’re nicer than you, though. They don’t cal each other names in front of us kids.”
    Is this what guilt feels like?
    “He was real y nice before you got here,” the blonde commented, placing her napkin on her starchy floral dress’s lap. “Gave us quarters, told jokes. Do you have quarters?”
    “No, I make real money.”
    “So, you got dol ars then?”
    Ambitious little thing. “Only for quiet children.”
    “I’m quiet.” The last little girl said, brown eyes huge and beseeching. Where the hel was Bobby?
    “Sorry, Rhubarb, they only had white zinfandel. I figured you’d be able to handle pink—” Bobby quieted abruptly when she jumped out of her seat and directly into his path. His eyes widened when she took the glass and gulped down the contents only to practical y toss it on the table. “You okay, Rhubarb?”
    “Not real y, but if you get me away from this table I promise not to cal you anything mean for three entire minutes.” So she was desperate. She could live with that. The DJ was just finishing his set up, so she grabbed Bobby’s hand and pul ed him along with her. “I hope you have money, Wichowski, because we’re going to need it.”
    “When did my wal et get involved in your hysteria?”
    “When you got me stuck at a table with six versions of 20 Questions.” They reached the DJ, an almost smiling man with a receding hairline trying a little too hard to be hip. “Can you get the music started now?”
    “Now?” The man looked to Bobby for verification.
    Bobby sighed, reached into his jacket pocket and pul ed out a bil .
    “Sure? You want slow songs?”
    “Anything.” Relieved, Ruth Anne started toward the dance floor, but stopped after two steps. She had to, the train of her dress wouldn’t fol ow her.
    “Can you get off my dress, please?”
    Bobby waited until she turned around to lift his shiny black wingtips from the pink train. “You owe me fifty bucks.”
    She lifted her arms, quite a feat in the over-tailored corset-turned-bridesmaid’s-dress-from-hel .
    “Does this thing look like it has pockets?”
    He took a little too long with his inspection.
    “Are we dancing or what?”

    He blinked at her as if she woke him from something. “Who said anything about dancing?”
    “Would you rather go play with the Harry Potter set?”
    He looked at the table and shrugged. “I’m out of cash no matter which way I go. Might as wel take the lesser of two evils.”
    She was prepared to cal him seven different names her mother would disown her for when he cupped her arm and led her onto the empty dance