steak frites

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

We were at The Wedding. It was almost the end: The cake had been cut, the guests were sitting with drinks and many empty glasses, the bridesmaids' shoes had come off.

We were sitting at the foot of one of the head tables. (Yes, there were more than one. This was An Event.) I was drinking a cheap Cab. The bartender had overfilled my glass, so I couldn't swirl. Not that it mattered. Swirling is not important when you are at A Wedding.

That is when she laid down. Flat on her back. Right there, next to the table. She hadn't caught the bouquet, even though The Bride had aimed for her. ("Who was that other girl?" we said. "Where did that other girl come from?")

"It's been 11 years," she said. "Since high school! I feel like I give him filet mignon, and all I get back is French fries."

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