If Anyone Knows
| Thwack... Zing. Pwok--sail...
Swish. "Shit." Poink. aaaaarrrrcccc. Swish. Bounce, swi--thwank. Bing. "Damn." "You're go." Drip, drip, drip. Sigh. Thwack. Step-step, step-step, step-step. Ping. Thwack--step. Thwack--step-step. Thwack-- Thwack--step-step, step-step, step-step, step-slip. Swish, fall, throw, aaaaarrrrcccc, clunk. "Fuck!" Once safely inside the rectangular white-with-red-trim box, the only way to give a squash lesson is to assail, cajole, and pepper the student with a variety of balls and hope that some of them will be returned--preferably without sounding the dull metallic peal of the tin of error situated front and centre, twelve inches above the wooden floor. Unlike cousin tennis, the likelihood of losing the ball is greatly diminished in such an enclosed area but the potential for diminishment of ego and pride is the same. Yellow dot, blue dot--matters not if the racquet face fails to hit and hurl the little black (occasionally green) sphere with brutal force to the back wall and, then, ricochet just out of opponent's reach. Split-second decision making is the key to the success of rallies that speed the heart, move feet, and awaken slumbering reflexes. Swish. Most beginning attempts end in failure, as with Josh on the occasion of his second lesson with facility coordinator/squash-pro Bill, who took great interest in his fledgling charge. Having rescued Josh from an all-revealing episode in the centre's locker room just a month and a half ago, the two immediately sensed an unspoken commonality that seemed destined to oblivion until the day three weeks back when Bill's phone buzzed at sport-central. "'lo, is Bill there?" "Yes--speaking." "Oh. Um, Bill this is Josh. You probably won't remember me but you --ah-- got me out of quite a situation not too long ago when you know, I, ah, couldn't get into my locker and was, heh heh, a little light in the clothing department." "Right. Yes, well of course I remember you Josh. It was great seeing you--ah, meeting you. Always glad to be of service to those without clothes - er - towel even if they can't hold on to their stuff..." Pause. "Well, ah, anyway Bill, thanks--I just wanted to call and, you know, say thanks." "Oh. Right. You're welcome, all part of the service--ahh... So, Josh, had you ever played squash before?" "Sure--I mean a couple of times. With Tim that day? Well he whipped my butt pretty good--I mean considering his age and all. I was some pissed that I couldn't put him away. That was my, heh heh, other embarrassment of the day." "Yeah - well, age doesn't have much to do with winning in squash. It's a game of strategy - I've been playing for years and have been lucky enough to have had some great teachers and opponents--mostly older guys--who've made me run miles while they stroll around the court." "I know the feeling. But I guess I've got a lot to learn - er, you know pick-up--just need a few pointers and I'll be able to take on anyone!" Swish. "Sure, Josh and I, well, ah- you know, give lessons here at the Centre and - maybe, if you think--" "Outstanding, Bill. I mean, that'd be great if you could find the time - I'd pay you of course--whatever the going rate is. I just feel that maybe I should get a few things straight before I learn my bad habits too well." "Right on. It probably wouldn't take too long - maybe you'd end up teaching me - I've seen you er, but I haven't seen you play - so, ah - why don't you come over for an assessment and I'll be quite honest with what I can do for you." Student and teacher met the following Friday morning (Josh's day off) and, early on, ascertained that further sessions were required and that both had much to learn. "One of the toughest but most important things for speed and power is to accelerate the racket only after contact has been made with the ball. Accelerating before is a waste of energy and produces little speed. Like this:" Vvvvvvrrrrooom. THWACK. Poink. Swish.
Bill smiled quietly standing in the right-hand server's box trying to look professional for his willing and eager student. Since only five years separated them, Bill felt the need to appear to be a sports-sage and, accordingly, was decked out in his best court attire: The Fox designer all cotton T-shirt was a perfect fit in that it fell loosely around his muscular shoulders and allowed just a hint of his well-defined pectorals to show through the double-knit material. His top was carefully tucked into pure-white, mid-thigh shorts that weren't nearly as loose and, when leg stretches were necessary, clearly delineated well-formed, taut cheeks that were the direct result of thrice weekly Nautilus work-outs. Court shoes, uniquely designed for the sport (and purchased only the day before) looked simultaneously sturdy and dashing with a jungle-green stripe on each and whose virgin treads squeaked loudly at every turn. Knee-length socks protected the sturdy calves and finally revealed darkly tanned, well-haired legs. Taken as a whole but just up to the neck, Bill had achieved a look and style befitting one with knowledge to impart. However, his boyish face, chubby cheeks and dark curly locks belied the mentor façade he so desperately wished to purvey. Josh was the antithesis of his guide. Treads were a distant, walked-off memory of his Adidas whose laces failed to fill an eye for an eye. No socks here--but perhaps none were required as the abundant, blond leg curls were more than enough to keep their sun-hued appendages warm and covered. Over-sized, bleached denim cutoffs could not conceal the fact that Josh was truly fullsome for his twenty-three years and the Beck-faced tank top that floated freely across his willowy chest was more a nod to decorum than an actual garment. All of this topped off by a shaved head that competed for whiskers on a hardly noticeable blond stubble, which was part of the angelic ready-to-smile face that seemed cling to every word and suggestion uttered by the master-of-the-game. Towards the end of their allotted time, the tempo and intensity of the rallies increased considerably. Occasionally, a rhythm between the two was noticeable as was the steady outpouring of sweat from both bodies as they explored this most heart-effective, calorie-efficient sport. Swish. "Gee, Bill - how do you do it? You move so well - so, effortlessly. You've got to show me your secrets." "Thanks Josh - but you're going to be fine. Keep working on your serve and your grip and I'm sure you'll be beating me before you know it." The lights flickered on/off soundlessly announcing the end of the forty-minute session. "Time's up. Lunch crowd will be here shortly - guess we'll have to call it quits for today." "The time just vanished--so will you take me on? Can we do this again? What should I pay?" asked an exhausted Josh as they stepped through the small door that disappeared into the court's architecture when closed. "Ah, well of course we'll continue--same time next week? Posted rates are $20 per lesson but you've given me such a good workout I'd be happy with ten." "Good deal. I mean that's very kind of you--put 'er there," exclaimed an exuberant Josh as he put a vice grip on Bill's happily extended hand. At the locker room doors the two parted company. Bill went through STAFF while Josh would use MEN but not before quipping "Don't worry--this time I've got a combination!" Bill didn't acknowledge that last. His hand was still tingling from Josh's touch. ******* Halfway up the steep, narrow, well-travelled staircase, the stench of decades of stale beer became overwhelming. At the top, through the continuously banging door, the party was greeted with a pea soup fog of smoke whose components included various strengths of Canadian/Virginia tobacco, distinctively harsh, oft-suited, Turkish-leafed goods, a potent mixture of Swisher Sweets and Old Port cigarillos, the nausea-inducing reek of guillaouses (truly an international, provincial crowd), a whiff of Havana and not a few remainders of products to which the GST would never be added. The tall, skinny, bespectacled Best Man (BM) was gallantly leading a remarkably agile, if noticeably unstable, Groom-to-be (GTB) and followed by enough minions (mostly from her side of the family) to have fulfilled Snow White's requirements for three sequels. The Hi of their Hoes was the result of a Marguerite March begun three hours ago in centre town and finishing two blocks away where, for the first time of the four stops, substantive food was served alongside the imported Mexican libation. This second-floor den of inequity was also filled with copious amounts of testosterone eagerly anticipating a performance worthy of this assemblage of those who preferred their breasts Grade A, extra large. Miraculously, a large rampside table was suddenly available for the squadron of new comers (although BM's wallet could be seen to be remarkably lighter in this unreserved accomplishment). Simultaneously, three overflowing pitchers of what was gamely announced as "locally made" draft beer invaded a covey of soap-spotted glasses before being raised by all to drink the health and long life of GTB. That done, and as if cued by the ensuing belches, the jukebox lit into action and the lovely Sophia appeared. Stags are attended by many types of men: beyond BM and GTB there are various male relatives and friends who, through some connection, however tenuous (generally the purchase of a stag ticket is enough), are thrown together for one night of revelry never to reconvene again. The groom's job is to have fun--one last fling--endure jokes about bed technique and try to remain sober enough to remember some detail and appear in good health but devoid of spirits at the ceremony two days hence. Judging by the list of GTB nothing would be recalled and the likelihood of attending his day of days even a month from then would be highly suspect. Boom-ka-boom, ka-boom--(intro. over, cue the voice) "Oh baby, baby, baby, oh..." The first gyrational opus screamed out of the watt-poor speakers with a rasping buzz that aurally confirmed the fact that at least one woofer was split. Satisfied that this was her song, Sophia stepped confidently onto the runway stage and began moving to the boom for her drooling fans of which several attempted to engage her in conversation over the pulsating soundtrack: "Hey Sophie--skip the foreplay, let's see them melons." "Ya sure yer younger sister can't make it tonight." Tall, wigged-brunette, spike heels, rather pretty face under the tonnage of makeup that demanded well-developed eyelid muscles--Sophia made quick work of her hecklers, blue-sequined blouse and micro black leather skirt to stand in a scant, glittering bra and matching g-string even as her evenly coloured mulatto body moved in well-practised time with the country-tale that was just beginning the verse in which the dog is found for dead. The stagmen seemed intent on her performance. It was abundantly clear (salivation being evident on the chins of many) that some of the older gentlemen had come from secluded lives and were not frequent risers in this sort of establishment. The look on their faces was akin to the observance of a religious miracle. BM kept pouring. The music changed to a slower, mournful ballad every bit as dark as the wide, uplifted nipples dramatically revealed just before the first chorus. The room howled with delight at this view and not a few fly fronts resembled the proudly pitched tents of a Boy Scout Jamboree. G-string was next--artfully removed during the half-step modulation setting the musical stage for the big finish. The lights teased as much as the dancer who began taking special interest in the somewhat peckish looking groom--clearly one March too many. Sophie approached the ringside guest-of-honour and danced only for him. Almost reluctantly, he glanced up at her mid-section, which was mere inches away from his non-musically swaying head. Incredibly, he blanched when she boldly removed his designer glasses and deftly cleaned their plastic, photo-gray lenses with the pointed tips of her chest. The room erupted in an explosion of catcalls ("Hey baby, my tongue needs a wipe"), lewd comments ("'bout cleaning mine with your pussy"), and quiet envy. Sophie returned the nicely smudged sight aids and concluded her act with what appeared to be a painless execution of the splits. Polite applause and calls for more beer. GTB chugged the last of his and staggered off to the urinals, which, like everything else in the room, could be easily found by scent, returned several minutes later, still unsteady and no longer wearing his frames, contacts in place. He was, however, interrupted in his careful ascension to his chair by BM and the youngest and most muscular of the group whose driver's licence if examined, would have necessitated his removal from this club designed for older, mature, adults. The two grabbed either side of GTB and, after successfully negotiating the crowded and littered terrain, delivered him to what was affectionately known as the VIP Room where a private table-dance had been procured for him on this, his last night of freedom. Having safely installed their victim, his escorts assumed guard-like stances outside the personal parlour. Curtain opened. Performing for one, and with a new song playing, Sophie was all business. Naked in 10 seconds flat, she paraded rhythmically on a postage-sized dais so near to GTB that, even in discreet lighting, he could count every mole and hair on her well-rounded torso. Now clinging to his beer, GTB drank deeply even as Sophie squatted, straddling his lap. Regimental dress for Marguerite March was loud, polyester short-sleeved shirt, loose, floppy shorts (khaki, if available) and sandals--this rig ensured minimal clean-up in the event that anything was spilled or involuntarily expelled locally. An audible shudder was heard by his constant custodians as Sophie's well manicured right hand slipped expertly up GTB's leg and, without hesitation, into the cottony confines of his red and white checked boxers where she ensnared the bare manhood of the one-who-would-soon-give-his-vows. "Say honey, don't you like me?" demurred his flesh attendant as she valiantly tried all manner of ministrations to coax the slumbering kindling into a wide-awake log. "Well, er, sure I like you fine--just too much booze, I guess. No offense," he replied and as if to confirm the analysis released a deep, chimichanga belch. The minders giggled. But Sophie was on a mission--she'd had her orders (and her pride). As the music wound down she played her last erectile card and carefully placed two oft-travelled digits in the opening of GTB's largest untanned sphere. "What the -- Ohhhhhhh! My God --- no one's ever gone there--Jeeeeesusssssss..." Ensuring GTB's fly was at the top of the mast, BM ably assisted by the underaged steroid ad (duly pleased with themselves "Did you hear him scream?") walked/carried their sated star back to ring-side just as Andrea began her second song very much to the carnal delight of almost everyone in the room. ******* As had been agreed previously, Josh met Bill in the staff locker room before their next session to go over the essential equipment required for the game. Josh's wood shafted racquet was destined for the scrap heap the moment he held and tested the string tension of one from an assortment of graphite's that Bill had brought to view. Graphite or wooden or the racquet is the key tool for the game. A smaller total surface area than that of tennis is of no surprise considering the relative size of the balls. The criss-crossed strings (then gut, now plastic-based) are stitched through the small holes of the oval head with such pressure that it's best left to machines to tighten those fine lines. The more pretentious manufacturers emblazon their logo loudly onto the mesh to ensure corporate recognition. The beginning player comes to treasure those markings in their use as a mental target for ball contact. The rectangular shafts vary between cloth and rubber grips. Both have advantages: the former soaks up sweat, the later lasts longer; neither improves a weak backhand. To keep the strings intact, a head cover is highly recommended when ferrying the racquet (even from locker to court -- two or three balls will also fit readily thus avoiding their unsightly appearance in form-fitting athletic shorts). Unlike other activities, it is most important to remove the head's sheath before play commences. Eyewear, sweatbands, properly treaded shoes were all discussed in depth and shown to their best advantage. Josh would use one of the test racquets during their lesson time before deciding whether or not to take advantage of the special discount Bill could arrange through the bulk purchases of the Centre's Pro Shop. The graphite was an instant success--far more pings than thwacks could be heard. The swish ratio fell correspondingly. Eventually play was halted to discuss grip and serving techniques. "Try to shift the grip of the racket into the palm of your hand--staying as far to the end of the shaft as you can. You'll be amazed at the previously impossible returns you'll be able to make," opined the thorough tutor. "Rather than swing like a baseball bat on the serve, try an overhead smash--start with your right arm fully extended and come straight down on the ball remembering the golden rule of accelerating just as contact is made: like this." Thwwish - ping - bap - aaaaarrrrcccc, - plop. "Gosh--right in my corner! So that's how you do it," said the incredulous apprentice. "Guess I'll give it a go." Swish. "Oops." Swish. "Damn." "Keep your eye on the ball and relax," coaxed Bill. Thwwish - thump - clunk. This last hit the front wall tin and sailed straight up (just short of the ceiling) before falling directly to the floor where it rolled sheepishly back to its server. (Had Josh still been using his wooden racquet, it most probably would have become kindling.) Bill's pedagogical skills sprang to the fore. "It's nice when they come right back, eh? I guess I wasn't quite clear. Let me stand behind you and guide your arm through the motion a couple of times," volunteered Bill as he deftly moved into position. Having dropped his own racket, he placed his hand lightly over Josh's and slowly took him through the steps. Josh could distinctly feel the difference of the muscle combination required and after a few more hand-held tries relaxed and, inadvertently, moved a half step backwards into the unyielding frame of his instructor. Pause. A step forward and Josh let fly unaided. Thwwish - ping - bap - aaaaarrrrcccc - plop. "That's much better. I'll soon be in trouble if you can find that serve more often," said a reddened Bill as he scooped up his own racquet and competently returned Josh's first accurate serve. Josh's smile widened significantly as, thanks to the touching attention of his coach, he now had a proper swing to add to his small but steadily increasing arsenal of court weapons. Their rhythm improved immeasurably; the rallies became more frequent and exciting, and Josh was finally able to win a couple of points. "Just what I feared, Josh. Soon you'll be teaching me--that's a great improvement today." Josh beamed with pride as, mini-blackout over, the two made their way back to the locker room. "May as well change with me since all your stuff's here already," offered Bill. "I'll bet you just wanted to be sure I didn't lock myself out again," laughed Josh in his best self-deprecating tone as he followed his mentor through STAFF. It being a hot, sultry day in late July, Josh hadn't changed before his lesson but did bring a fresh T-shirt and underwear to swap with the sweat-drenched ones he was wearing. Bill, having a few errands to run at lunch, decided a quick shower and change of clothes were also in order. Reliving the most exciting points of their session, the two were soon bare and alone in front of security-free lockers but with a central mini-safe for valuables (a special code was needed to enter through the staff room door). Just to the left of the shower cavern, which, if all faucets were engaged could comfortably stand six, was a large stack of double-thick, extra-wide towels--eagerly awaiting the drips and drops of the Centre's employees (where any females went remained a mystery). Four liquid soap dispensers were mounted on the sport-motifed designer tiles midway between showerheads; brightly sheened shaving mirrors adjustable on an accordion-like device could be found hovering, opposite each other at the two farthest stations--presumably left and right. Here was opulence never contemplated in the design of that for the paying customers. "What an honour to be allowed into the inner sanctum for the Gods," quipped the blond-haired server-in-training as he stepped into the ultimate wetroom and selected a gleaming spout to deliver its body cooling/cleansing moisture and with five spray settings from which to choose. Bill, suddenly and uncharacteristically quiet, followed immediately behind his guest and opted for a spot adjacent rather than opposite his shower-mate. Josh, au-natural was nothing new to Bill. The day six weeks ago when his student-to-be had, inadvertently, revealed all and in full cry while Bill clipped off Josh's key-lost lock, remained indelibly in Bill's memory. Today Josh's flaccid form matched Bill's but there were several other differences: dark haired Bill had more body muscle and contrast; Josh was uncircumcised--an unverifiable detail at the first unveiling; Bill's equipment seemed much smaller than Josh's now, but he knew that his would attain wider and thicker dimensions than his apprentice's if it were allowed to reveal its total interest. Bill blushed deeply as he had that last thought and snatched a glance at his companion to see if he'd noticed. Josh was a study in suds (spray set to "fine"). Bill continued to struggle with his developing attraction in the younger man beside him: so honest, happy, open--. Feelings that on another occasion, years back, he had acted upon with temerity but also trust only to be brutally betrayed by his best friend. The subsequent snickers, rumours and ridicule--especially from those he thought he knew--were his daily terror until he escaped high school and moved far away to try life again. A Northern Community College provided the requisite anonymity. He majored in sports science, which led to his first job at the Centre. Now he could support himself--his life was great, solid. Except..., except for the overwhelming impact that this lithe, 6' 1" showering man was having on that secret/dangerous, pushed-away side of himself with its truly terrifying dichotomy of hopefulness and loathing. Startled, he came out of his brief day dream only to realize that his partner, looking calmly over his shoulder, was openly staring even as the hard-spray gushed down Bill's dark body and parted into two streams around the beginnings of the physical proof of his awakening need for Josh. ******* While the bride and groom are the impetus for the social custom, it is clearly others--generally family--for whom a wedding is held. The bride's clan as chief custodians of the rite (signing cheques has its privileges) has the undeniable prerogative to host the public bonding. They also receive the following benefits: preclusion of visiting any far away relatives for at least a lustrum, availability of a room for cash-carrying boarders, and, if held at home (at least the reception) the purchase and installation of wall-to-wall carpet, which under no other circumstance could have been afforded. The start of one home can lead to the collapse of another. The immediate forebears of the groom also gain a room-for-hire but, in many instances, this benefit is more than offset by the added dependent due, in turn, to the not-easily-reckoned-with "thing" known as male pride: Father & groom in collusion, often with an assist from various "Uncles" must ensure that daughter-in-law wants for nothing in her new circumstances, thus ensuring the timely arrival of grandchildren who become the necessary glue for keeping all concerned civil and polite. (If only we had known the extent of that power before the onset of puberty!) For the intended the wedding means a public display of oaths, affection, wit (hopefully) and an endless barrage of social engagements (showers, stags and dinners), at least one REALLY BIG FIGHT, rehearsal, ceremony, pictures and reception. The honeymoon is not the beginning of life together but a celebration of survival. The rehearsal has two main purposes: determining if the Wedding Party can find the Church and practising the choreography required to ensure the orderly and timely flow of all the players to their appointed stations. With only one hundred guests expected, the chapel of St. Peter's Anglican would more than adequately provide enough space for Saturday's happy union. BM, Maid of Honour (MOH--and at 45 likely to remain so) and Mother of the Bride (MOB) could be seen and overheard in heated discussion north of the pews and just east of the organ. Their well-projected whispers weighed the merits of who would sit in the family pew and how they would be escorted. BM served as referee and could well have used a whistle. It was the view of MOB that those family members who were anecdotally known to be coming but had not RSVP'd should sit in the parking lot. The instrument that would provide the seamless musical backdrop for the ceremony was being pummeled unmercifully by a mature player. Due to advances in technology, he was no longer required to push great gusts of air into the instrument's thirsty pipes with mighty thrusts of his not inconsiderable feet. Undaunted, he had transferred that physical activity to his arms--inflicting savage poundings on the two defenceless manuals and ferociously battering the too oft changed stops. Rundown hurdy gurdy's produced happier results. All of this flailing added a most peculiar arrhythmic plastic percussion as various body parts lunged at the helpless instrument during the Trumpet Voluntary, which was more designed for wartime evacuation that stately entry into the sanctuary. Various ushers and bridesmaids lingered in the vestibule like the extras of a British sit-com--the maids exchanging tales of "sewing the dress" while the gents speculated on the likelihood of enough time to "have a couple" before the rehearsal dinner. The absent Father of the Bride (FOB) was closing a deal uptown whose success would put wedding cake on the table but, whose failure would result in preparations for the Last Supper. Those who knew him well opined that this particular deal would not close until the rehearsal had ended. Mother and Father of the Groom (MAFOTG) sat quietly together at the back of the chapel patiently waiting to be asked to help but knowing they never would--for the wedding they were human set dressing even though that evening's repast would be at their pleasure. The pastor's collar stood out strongly against his Jamaican-black skin. He was patience itself in getting this disparate group through their actions and lines in readiness for the following day's public declaration of faith, love and support. His easily summoned gentle laugh was like a group valium and was required on more than one occasion during the rehearsal for the ceremony that no one hoped need be repeated but most realized would. The anxious bride was in the ladies room attending to some wayward mascara. Despite two trips to the shower and vast quantities of cologne, GTB, head still pounding, standing in place where the aisle junctures with the narthex, still exuded the foul essence of yesterday's alcohol through his skin and today's tobacco deep in his lungs and well-coiffed hair. Small price to pay for such a fun night. Josh continued his bold gaze and turned to face the other. His feelings, too, were apparent. The water continued to stream down both mentor and student who, now in happy delirium, shamelessly and happily locked eyes. To one observing them from the waist up, an incredible display of kinship, understanding and the beginnings of joy could be seen forging an invisible bond between the two men who were patched with soap bubbles, moisture, and desire. Their personal silence easily drowned out the constant splatter of water ceaselessly hitting the smoothly polished, slightly angled floor, which obediently funneled all manner of fluids directly to its central, stainless steel grating then carried them away through bigger pipes, to filtration and, finally, re-release back into the wet cycle--a renewed part of the most precious and abundant commodity on earth. And our human need for this fundamental element of life was, in many ways, responsible for producing the setting in which another had been discerned. Bill took a step forward but immediately thought better of it and turned his back. Seconds later, quivering slightly with liquid of a different type emanating from his eyes, he jumped as Josh, now standing directly behind, placed one silky-smooth hand on his teacher's glistening shoulder. "Josh, - I, ah... well--" Josh moved forward again and placed his other hand over Bill's lips as he began gently turning his instructor's initially reluctant body until, at last, the two re-faced each other and, as Josh carefully lifted up his new friend's chin, resumed eye contact. "Don't say a word--this is too beautiful a moment to spoil--let's just be," he murmured, drawing Bill close and into his arms. Josh held him carefully, and delicately brushed his lips against Bill's--, and again... Then, as if a huge barrier had suddenly been lifted, Bill opened his mouth wide to Josh's. Their tongues met and there began a host of intimate discoveries, which no words could ever describe. They locked together, full and hard but Josh soon felt Bill relax internally moving their kisses from animal to existential--a doubly fulfilling experience, so intense that neither heard the STAFF door slam shut. ******* Within ten minutes of the appointed time, the dark-paneled, candle-lit chamber was filled as the ushers had dutifully escorted the wide array of family, friends and well-wishers to their oft-sat, wooden, cheek-challenging pews. Once none were left in search of seat, and the entourage lined up, the public bonding could begin. BM, fresh and proud, stood beside the, finally, sweet-smelling GTB (a mercifully short, but tart, rehearsal dinner had allowed him the opportunity of a full sleep on his last, single night). Tuxedo-trimmed, azure-carnationed the two stood facing the pastor who, likewise, was resplendent in his purple-edged, white-trimmed, black silk gown. The organ suddenly truncated a Bach Fugue, which had been vainly in search of a codetta, and blew immediately into the bride-favoured St. Anthony Chorale with its unique five bar phrase thus aurally signaling the start of the Wedding March--no Mendelssohn here. The whoosh of well-cleaned, some-starched clothes turning as one in response to the body of their owners was proof positive that the bride would soon complete her journey to official union. At mid-march BM, reacting to the Minister's quietly raised eyebrow, gently nudged GTB as he, understandably nervous, turned to face the woman of his dreams. A host of people greeted his eye as it processed his first view of his beautifully-gowned wife-to-be who glowed from head to toe with joy and excitement. All of the "little" things of wedding week were now behind them (no one was sitting in the parking lot). Family, friends: all mattered naught. This was a personal moment only meant for two--the others congregated merely providing a backdrop for the occasion. Then she was there, beside him, Black & White together. As he took her hand, GTB gulped noticeably and quickly moved his gaze to his intended from where it had unaccountably lingered for a few seconds on one standing near the ushers at the back of the chapel. As before, the Reverend brought a serenity and dignity to the well-known words and scriptures of the service. He had come to know the bride and GTB through their pre-marriage counseling: they seemed compatible, caring, eager to have and raise a family, and, good friends--please God, this one would last. But it was with considerable self-restraint, his heart pounding, that Bill, his bride-to-be looking into his eyes, managed (again) to say nothing when the preacher enquired: "If anyone knows why these two should not be joined together, speak now or forever hold your peace." Even though it was nearly a year since clutching the one whose sweet wet kisses had caused such a furor on their final day together, the unexpected sight of his momentary partner staring intently at him stripped away the mask of Bill's other being. That unbidden glance had rekindled his unwanted virus just as he thought he was cured. |
