Free Another Man Will by Daaimah S. Poole

between our drunken laughter and our movements all around the room, Xavier woke up, sleepy, trying to figure out why we were laughing and standing over him.
    â€œCan you dance for us? I have some ones. I mean, well, I can’t make it rain, but I can make it drizzle,” I said drunkenly. I began pitching coins in his direction, waiting for him to dance.
    Stacey slapped his ass. I think at first he was with it. Then, when he saw he was the joke, not the entertainment, he began to scramble for his boxers and jeans. Stacey couldn’t hold her laughter in, and we all were laughing as he tried to leave the room. I was throwing pennies at him, and Geneva was in the corner, cry-laughing, and the last thing I remembered saying before I passed out was, “I need a water. Hand me a water.”
    That was several hours ago and I vaguely recall acting like I was twenty, but still didn’t know how I ended up in the bathroom tub. I was feeling so very sick. I didn’t know if it was the third, fourth, fifth, or sixth drink I had. My incoherence didn’t stop Stacey from playing like she was the paparazzi, flashing the camera in my face.
    â€œI can barely open my eyes. Stop taking pictures. It’s not funny. Oh, my God, I have a headache,” I grumbled. I got up out of the tub and fell onto the bed. Geneva came up and handed me a bottle of water. “Geneva, why are you walking around like you didn’t have as many drinks as I did?”
    â€œThe key to not being hungover the next day is to drink water, eat something, and pop an aspirin before you pass out,” Geneva informed me. “We learned that how many years ago? Plus, I’m driving back and have to keep my eyes on the road. Plus, my husband and kids are calling me nonstop. It is time to say bye to Toronto.”
    We packed and hit the road, and after I had food in my stomach, and aspirin in my system, I was feeling a little better. I couldn’t wait to get home and just sleep my hangover off.

C HAPTER 7
    Dana
    R eshma and Zyeed must have invited everyone they had ever met in their lives to their wedding. There were hundreds of people seated in rows and rows of white-draped chairs with big bows behind them. Reshma came down the aisle escorted by her father. Her arms and hands were covered in henna tattoos. Her traditional Indian gown had vibrant hues of red and orange and was lined with beautiful beaded stones. The dress’s rose-beaded embroidery accented her bridal nose chain. Zyeed waited for Reshma to reach him at the end of the aisle. He looked handsome dressed in a long gold suit jacket with a mandarin collar and a hanging scarf.
    The wedding ceremony was amazing, but the reception was extravagant, like a Bollywood movie. I could easily say the wedding cost a couple hundred thousand dollars. The lavish reception was held at the Summerton Hill Country Club. There were elaborate, sparkling blue, yellow, white, and purple centerpieces and flower towers illuminated by white candles on each table, in addition to lovely silverware, plates, and napkins. During the reception they did many Indian dances around her, and there was just so much love and family. I cried as her dad made a speech. He had a very thick accent, but it made me think about how proud my dad was going to be when he could finally give me away.
    As traditional as the beginning of the wedding was, most of the music for the reception was hip-hop and dance music. Everyone was dancing and having a great time except for me. I didn’t know anyone at my table and I was kind of lonely until Leah came over to my table and grabbed my hand and said, “Come on. Get up and dance.”
    â€œI don’t want to dance.”
    â€œYes, you do,” Leah said insistently and pulled me up, anyway, and we began to dance.
    I should have known it was a setup.
    â€œI have this great guy I want you to meet,” she said as she nudged me toward this okay-looking black guy.