Steady, As I Go

Most of the wedding guests were on the deck next to the pool, dancing to jazzy electronic music. Others sat at the dimly lit outdoor bar. Our little group stood next to the dessert table, passing around a joint, talking and not talking.

  We moved our bodies maybe to the music, maybe because we were cold. I stood between the handsome hospital admin who went to high school with my boyfriend’s best friend and the saxophonist who used to play with the groom’s band before he fell in love with teaching fourth graders. My boyfriend mostly looked at the ground as he drank several beers. 

  “This is a comfortable group,” my boyfriend’s best friend’s girlfriend said.

“Are we being rude? By not dancing?” someone asked. 

“I don’t think we’re being rude. We’re enjoying ourselves.” I said to the circle as they nodded. 

We talked about Nishil’s tattoo of an avocado and the process of overcoming ourselves. The spaces between our bodies shrank as the blunt burned. We got high breathing in the smoke that expelled from each other’s faces. The handsome hospital admin smiled handsomely at no one in particular and I made eye contact with the saxophonist. 

  We validated the work each of us do for money. Especially encouraging were the Australian couple who, earlier, had surprised the bride and groom with a cover of John Prine’s “In Spite of Ourselves.” 

  “Right on,” they said to me, when I spoke to them about my work at a manufacturing startup led by a CEO who self-identifies as a Marxist.

We took polaroid photos of ourselves, silly ones and candid shots. We tasted one another’s drinks and shouted about anything it was we were saying. We discussed how to subvert the dominant paradigms of our culture. We posted photos of the polaroids online. 

  We thought privately about romantic love as we turned to the table behind us to claim the last of the gourmet cupcakes. We laughed through the subject of politics, and we agreed that Oakland is where we all ought to live. We sighed collectively. 

Around 3 a.m., my boyfriend leans over the dresser in our rented bungalow, his elbow crushing the beading on my clutch.

  “This just isn’t working,” he announces.