The Dirty Scoundrel in the White Suit
The hall had about fifty people, glasses in hand, doing wedding things. I walked in, scanned the room for a familiar face.
Found one. Just not the one I was looking for.
She was near the sofa — catching a breath between celebrations. Jewelry, glittering attire, the works. Unmistakably the bride. I'd only seen her in photographs.
I walked over. Sat across from her.
"Alone?"
"No. My husband."
"Don't see one."
She looked at me the way you look at someone who's wandered into the wrong wedding. Must be from the groom's side, her expression said, because he clearly doesn't know who I am.
She nodded toward the far corner. Mehendi palm, rings and all, pointing the way.
"The bearded one?"
A sigh. "No. White suit. No beard."
I studied him. Nodded slowly.
"What?"
She waited.
"That guy?"
She stared.
"The good-for-nothing dirty scoundrel from Tanver?"
"What?"
"That dirty scumbag married you?" I gave a hapless shake of my head.
"That is very rude."
"Are you sure? Want to bet?"
She had run out of words. Her face was doing everything instead.
"Let's just ask him," I said.
Stood up. Turned around.
"Hey — you. White suit."
The groom looked up from his conversation.
"Are you the dirty little scoundrel who married this beautiful lady?"
The hall went quiet. All eyes on the groom.
He stood there a moment. Then a smile slowly broke across his face.
"Yes."
I turned to the bride. "See. Told you."
She was somewhere between furious and confused, watching her husband cross the room toward this stranger …. with, of all things, a beaming smile.
Not the walk of a man looking for a confrontation.
Something else entirely.
He reached me. I stood up. He pulled me into a hug that nearly lifted me off my feet. The kind of hug that needs no explanation.
He turned to his bride.
Introduced me. Oldest friend. Grew up together. Got into trouble together. That kind.
The relief on her face was immediate.
So was the smile.
And just behind the smile — still there, unmistakably — a flicker of you absolute idiot.
Which was fair.
Found one. Just not the one I was looking for.
She was near the sofa — catching a breath between celebrations. Jewelry, glittering attire, the works. Unmistakably the bride. I'd only seen her in photographs.
I walked over. Sat across from her.
"Alone?"
"No. My husband."
"Don't see one."
She looked at me the way you look at someone who's wandered into the wrong wedding. Must be from the groom's side, her expression said, because he clearly doesn't know who I am.
She nodded toward the far corner. Mehendi palm, rings and all, pointing the way.
"The bearded one?"
A sigh. "No. White suit. No beard."
I studied him. Nodded slowly.
"What?"
She waited.
"That guy?"
She stared.
"The good-for-nothing dirty scoundrel from Tanver?"
"What?"
"That dirty scumbag married you?" I gave a hapless shake of my head.
"That is very rude."
"Are you sure? Want to bet?"
She had run out of words. Her face was doing everything instead.
"Let's just ask him," I said.
Stood up. Turned around.
"Hey — you. White suit."
The groom looked up from his conversation.
"Are you the dirty little scoundrel who married this beautiful lady?"
The hall went quiet. All eyes on the groom.
He stood there a moment. Then a smile slowly broke across his face.
"Yes."
I turned to the bride. "See. Told you."
She was somewhere between furious and confused, watching her husband cross the room toward this stranger …. with, of all things, a beaming smile.
Not the walk of a man looking for a confrontation.
Something else entirely.
He reached me. I stood up. He pulled me into a hug that nearly lifted me off my feet. The kind of hug that needs no explanation.
He turned to his bride.
Introduced me. Oldest friend. Grew up together. Got into trouble together. That kind.
The relief on her face was immediate.
So was the smile.
And just behind the smile — still there, unmistakably — a flicker of you absolute idiot.
Which was fair.
