The bride’s dress was not a hit. It had a kind of costumey texture to it, a fabric that was practically plastic. I imagined the guests going to town on that one, the real highlight of their night. The dress seemed somehow separate from the bride, a person I guessed was uncomfortable in costume, she looked so charmingly relaxed. She was embracing an essential element of weddings: uncreative children playing dress-up.
Most of the night, I worked as bar back. One of the cocktails involved a basil-leaf garnish, which I would place in my palm and then slap before dropping it in the coupe glass. Somebody said the coupe was modeled after Marie Antoinette’s breasts, and we were reminded she was only a child.
At the end of the night some raccoons came around, attracted by the scraps. I began to overcome my fear of them, forcing myself to forget about their claws. One of them was a mother. Someone remarked on the way the babies’ heads would all move at the same time, and it was true: they remained such a part of their mother, like snakes on a gorgon’s head.
In addition to several bottles of wine, I went home with the leftover basil.
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