We are sitting at a large round table, one of perhaps 20, in an enormous room that resembles something out of a German mansion from one of those WWII movies, except without all those long red drapes with the swastikas on them. The murmur of polite conversation emitting from our 5 dining companions floats about us, while in the background, one of the bridesmaids drones on about childhood experiences shared with the bride, about the magic of the covenant of marriage, about those intimate bits of conversation with the wife-to-be that obviously portended the eventual matrimony that we had only minutes ago witnessed.

We are sitting there, at this white-clothed table, which is utterly laden with the various gaudy implements of the traditional, well-monied wedding dinner, and I am entranced by her. The knickknacks and extraneous silverware try to steal my fidgety attentions. The fake sugared whole fruits of the centerpiece beckon for examination. The artful dollops of white butter placed on green leaves before me beg to be spread on the sliced olive bread in the basket sitting next to them, but I am unable to take my eyes off of her, unable to think of anything but how happy she makes me. She seems to feel the heat of my eyes, and turns my direction. She gives me a little smile and mouths the word “what”, her eyebrows arching inquisitively. Suddenly self-concious, I look away, the smile that was plastered to my lips peeling and fading into my signature smirk. I look back to her and whisper “oh, nothing, I’ll tell you later,” as my mind immediately skips hours ahead, imagining passionately uttered I-Love-Yous from between starched white hotel sheets.