72
wedge, watch the band, beads of sweat over their brows; broad, yellow, toothless grins.
You find a pair of empty seats near the king’s table, far from Rollo, Carlos, and Lola, where you and Jim share a quiet pint. When the bride calls the single ladies to the dance floor to toss the bouquet, Jim laments the cattle-call aspect of the ritual, half-expecting you to agree. The drummer rolls his snare. A swelling horde of half-drunk females somehow manages to maneuver themselves into a semi-circle in front of the bride. Some are visibly disinterested; others jockey for strategic positions. The bride turns away; the crowd counts to three. She hurls the bundle of black and purple roses over her shoulder. You leap from your chair and plow into a trio of women. They totter like bowling pins, fighting to keep themselves balanced on their tall heels. Now it’s just you and a short, plump girl in flats standing between you and the prize. You reckon she can easily be outjumped but misjudge her nimbleness. She grips your wrist as you snatch the bouquet from the air, and the two of you tumble to the floor, growling like animals, grappling for scraps in full view of the gathering crowd until, at last, you seize the treasure. Scrambling to your feet, you hold the tattered bouquet aloft as if it were the torch of freedom and present it to Jim.
Your vanquished foe hoists herself from the linoleum, her eyes boring a hole through the back of your skull. She pauses at your table long enough to call you a bitch (a moniker you accept proudly) before thundering off toward the bar.
“I’m thoroughly impressed,” says Jim. His lips wrestle away a smirk.
“I didn’t come here to be insulted by some wannabe doctor,” you say—a bit too loudly. Someone drops a tray of glasses in a back room, and cuss words follow, echoing into the hall, nearly as loud as your mother whenever you were slow with a cigarette, the television remote, a frozen pizza, your paycheck.
Jim stares over, contrite, which really pisses you off. You want to slap him in the face as hard as you can, so you push yourself up from the table