You know that Aunt Patti is rude when she lets out the most horrendous, most boisterous, belch at the wedding reception. Half of the table laughs in stifled giggles, but you are appalled. You see the reaction on your comrades’ faces, sparse beacons of moral light sprinkled about the room. You know what they are thinking.
How could she?
You sit there, watching the groom take his bride by the hand for the ceremonial dance. Then slowly—quite peculiarly—a memory seeps inside your thoughts. It is of you and your ex-husband at a time in your life when you believed your marriage was good and true. The two of you were at a winery not far from the small bed and breakfast with that rose garden. A warm breeze wafted through the tasting room when your husband opened his mouth. Instead of the words “I love you” fluently gliding off his tongue, they erupted in a ruckus of gastrointestinal air. Effectively, he burped in your face. The “I love you” was just the epilogue, along with his laughter.
The wedding continues. Bobby dances with his new wife Maria to the song Get Into the Groove. You begin to stew over Aunt Patti’s belch again, but it drifts away once Uncle Ernesto asks you to dance.
As you and Uncle Ernesto end your tango, Aunt Patti’s eructation floats idly back to the harbor of your thoughts, blown by the air off Ernesto’s tongue.
“Did you hear . . . “
“Hear what?”
“Nevermind,” he says shaking his head.
“Tell me,” you insist.
“What she said before she burped?” He holds your hand up for the final twirl.
“No,” you reply.
“Shiiittt,” he snickers.
You start to have your doubts about Ernesto after he escorts you back to your chair. You watch him return to his table and wonder why he would laugh at something so inappropriate. You straighten your dress and sit alone. More people dance. The cake arrives and you eat your piece quietly.
The groom and bride soon divide the room into halves. The bride takes her half, moving from table to table. The groom takes your side of the room.
When he reaches your table you give him a hug. He sits next to you and asks what you think of the wedding.
“Very nice,” you say.
“Yeah,” he sighs.
“The burp was a little too much,” you broach.
“Burp?”
“Yes, Patti’s burp.”
“Oh, yes.” The groom smiles then stands up. “I think the punch is spiked.”
You start to wonder if you are out of touch with your generation. After all, Patti and the wedding couple are only two years older than you. Is she really drunk?
Eventually, you feel that familiar pressure inside your bladder. You stand up, straighten your skirt then step away. But before you can leave the reception, before you step onto the carpet, a small portion of dance floor stretches out to meet the tip of your shoe. You fall and slide two feet across the carpet; your dress rolling up to expose your pink, silk undergarment with a lace so thin that it shows your hoohaa and your hoohee—a gift from that ex-husband.
“Dear god!” someone cries.
A hand reaches out to help you. You are not sure whose it is but take it and stumble slightly as you stand up. You feel the redness in your cheeks; the frustration boiling up to the surface of your skin. Your hands flutter like the wings of a tied bird as you fix the hampered dress.
“Fuck!” you bellow.
The group around you grows silent. People stare. Then your eyes grow wide with fright. You scuttle to the restroom and hide.
Minutes slip through the quiet stall as you stare at your intricate undergarment. Your face grows cool again. Eventually, you hear feet step into the ladies room followed by soft whispers.
“Did you . . . that?”
“What?”
“Sshh! You know.”
“Oh, yeah.”
The two voices begin to giggle as you hold your breath. All you want is to disappear, but you know you never will at this wedding.
Copyright © 2010 Tom H. Romanehur for Just Moving Along .com
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