Adonis Finis

Part One and Part Two

“I don’t know if I’ll bring anyone,” I reply to the bride-to-be as the seamstress takes up the hem to my cream and rose floral nightmare of a gown, “Are there going to be any cute single guys there?”

She smiles. “He will be there.” I don’t say anything for a little while. Memories of past encounters float through my mind. There is no denying that he is quite lovely, and I’m not seeing anyone right now. It’s been almost three years, though. People change.

“Is he seeing anyone?” I ask.

“I can find out,” she replies and in an instant she’s on the phone with her fiancé. Phone calls are made. Casual questions are asked. Information is gathered. A nasty breakup has recently occurred and he has no plans to bring anyone. Perhaps he will meet someone at the wedding, the groom suggests. Plans are set in motion. I will not bring a date and I will see if we can’t finally get together. Of course, he knows nothing of my plans.

******************

Throughout the ceremony, I search the congregation, looking in vain for my fair Adonis. Has he changed that much? I cannot find his crazy mop of hair, his tan skin, or his liquid blue eyes anywhere in the crowd. Either he has undergone extensive plastic surgery, or he is simply not here. I’m voting for the latter.

Several hours of photos later, the bridal party enters the reception hall via a long staircase. As I descend, I once again search the crowd of faces. And once again, I cannot locate my Adonis. He has unwittingly stood me up!

The greeting line is long and unbearable, and I recognize hardly a soul. I shake hands without registering faces, until a deep, quiet voice mumbles, “Hello.” I look up to meet the face. It’s changed, but it’s his. The tousled, mass of curls has been replaced with a military-style crew cut, his sinewy body has filled into that of a man’s form, and he’s wearing a suit. But his eyes are the same. And his smile.

I play it cool. So does he. “Yes, I remember you from the groom’s 19th birthday party. Was that you?” Little do I know the groom has shared my plot not ten minutes earlier. My cover is blown, and he has pre-empted my strike. Before he moves on he murmurs directly in my ear, “Save me a dance?” Something electric shoots down my spine.

I stand there flushed, and flustered, greeting people I do not know. I avoid looking in his general direction throughout dinner. Now that I’ve lost the upper hand, I feel stupid and exposed. I drink too much wine and dance the first dance with one of the letches in the bridal party. Do I want to be fondled by this sot all night? I ask myself. I know the answer, of course.

When the next song begins, I gather my courage and search him out. We dance. It feels right. He smells like cologne and brown sugar and this is good. He confesses that he was told that a “blonde in the wedding party” wanted to dance with him. He confides that when the bride’s blonde, but very pregnant sister descended the stairs, he considered bolting. He’s glad I’m here. It took a long time, he says. We click. The rest of the night is ours, and ours alone.

And that, my friends, is the story of how I met Arthur, some 11 years ago. May the next 11 be as passionate, if not as whirlwind as the first. Salute.