The Bridal Party, and Sundries

This piece resulted from the final assignment in my writing class from winter term; the assignment was to take a short story and rewrite it. I reworked an F. Scott Fitzgerald piece, entitled (YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHAT!, unless you read the subject line of this entry, in which case, ohai, spoiler) The Bridal Party (and: yes, it's now been a full term since I took the class, but I swear, I *have* been doing something other than avoiding this blog, namely, schoolwork! And -- other stuff! Oh! And I won an award for my writing! Which included money! Hence the explanation for all of these annoying exclamation points I somehow feel worthy of, suddenly! I apologize.

I will never exclaim again.

You know I'm lying).

Anyway. The piece! For which you froth at the mouth! Only probably not really! And more super-gratuitous exclamation points!!

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The Bridal Party

She can’t for the life of her lay her mind on any reason that would bring him back to her city, but she knows without doubt that he’s arrived. Sooz told her so. Sooz said she saw him out at Crepe Five, and that he was with somebody. They were together, Sooz said. It was obvious, she said. The way he handed her things at the table, that weird sense of mutual ownership people have in a relationship. You can sense it from across a football field’s distance. Sooz said he was wearing different clothes, too. She said he looked weird. Grown up.

She walks down to the corner to pick up her dry-cleaning. Jimmy is on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, which is how she knows it’s him, how he holds his arms. A soft girl with gray clothes and brown hair, smooth, all eyes, holds him to her. He looks clean. Hair short. His face is cinnamon-warm, the way he angles his head to look at her. She is a bird, all head-tilts and chirps. They’re headed to her, to her corner, where she has stopped. She watches them coming. He sees her face and smiles. She looks at the smile and places it under a microscope and studies it, studies the missing element: love for her. Her heart steals the plate of the smile from beneath the scope and wraps it in an afghan her grandmother made and settles it down inside its center, way way down. She manufactures a smile to give back. They bob and nod, while she dots her shirt with sweat just above the top of her bra where it meets her underarms.

Kate. The girl’s name is Kate.

He wants her address so he can send her an invitation. An invitation? An invitation to the -- ? Sure. Sure, okay. She says she’ll email it to him. She knows he knows it, but she doesn’t point it out. Not in front of Kate.

They move beyond her corner, waving to her. Kate’s feet are like little wings of gray leather. She waves back. She smiles some more. She walks down the street to the dry cleaner’s. Her smile never wavers. She decides she isn’t going to stop smiling. Ever.

She emails him and says they need to meet, that there’s something new about her that he needs to know. He says, okay, fine, but Kate and I have a lot to do in getting ready for the wedding, because it’s only six days from now. She whistles when she reads the “six days” part.

They’re in a coffee shop, not the one they used to always go to. A new one. One she’s just decided is not great, and serves the purpose of meeting with him there, so that afterward she can tell people she hates it there, or doesn’t really care for it, or loves it so, but the servers are strange; they’re assholes. Hipsters with stupid attitudes. Something like that. She taps on the table’s round base with the tip of her black loafer. He’s talking about Kate. Kate is from Dallas. Kate likes tennis. Kate’s birthday is the best day ever invented. Kate Kate Kate.

“I finished the book, you know. I’ve sold it. I have a publisher and an agent and several blogs and a twitter account and a Facebook page. It’s official.”

He looks at her and smiles so big, and he puts his warm hand on hers.

“I always knew it! I knew it. I’m so proud of you, Liz. I knew you could do it. That’s awesome news. Did I tell you Kate and I put together a blog for our wedding? It would be great if you could maybe write something about it, about us, afterward!”

She drinks her coffee, her foot a soft staccato on the table base.

“Love to. Yeah. Definitely. Great. Listen, I’ve got so much to do today, and it’s been really good catching up with you about everything. Did I already say congratulations? Congratulations! Kate seems really great. I’m so happy for you both.”

“Liz, look, don’t worry. You’ll find someone, too. You will.”

“Oh! Don’t I know it! I’ve already got about four someones lined up and waiting! I’ve even considered buying one of those ticker machines for numbers, to avoid confusion."

“God, Liz, you’re so funny. Okay. Yeah. Great seeing you, too. God. I can’t believe it’s only been a year. Gosh. Well. Anyway. Take care, you!” He rises and walks away after they embrace awkwardly, with her seated and him leaning down, after they each bestow a dry kiss on the other’s cheek, he drops his coffee cup in the trash on the way out. She watches him go.

Wandering around at the reception, where they play Billy Joel’s “Just The Way You Are” for the bride and groom dance, she finds herself wondering how Billy could sing that to, presumably, Christie Brinkley, and then, to think: just look how they ended up. Over! They fell apart! They didn’t make it! He loved her just the way she was, he wanted her to not go changing. He didn’t want clever conversation. He didn’t want to work that hard. He said he loved her; that it was forever. He loved her just the way she was.

It’s all bullshit, she thinks, as she eats a piece of glistening white cake. It’s good bullshit, the best kind. But it’s still bullshit.