Wedding Review.2

Our eating habits have become more furtive. A guest complained of our brazenness, which was considerable, it’s true, more so than I would normally advise. The spoils of catering are by rights ours, no argument there; it’s just that there’s something to be said for sustainability. Best not to flaunt rights which could easily be taken away. It’s fortuitous, then, that we’re dressed in black, like cat burglars; if you watch closely enough, maybe you’ll see us slipping into pantries or ducking behind bars, our hands positioned so as to shield your view from our loot.

The bride, once again, was oddly sympathetic. The groom, once again, was a poet. Why am I a caterer, you ask, and not a poet, such a way I have with words? Maybe because of the tedium of marriage, a tedium I expect some day soon to become my right. I have a hunch that a sympathetic bride might hesitate to call herself such. Bride, I mean, not sympathetic.

Pies are the new cupcakes, someone remarked, as, squatting, we shoveled said pie into our pie holes. Yes, pies, like cupcakes before them, are shaking the very foundations of marriage.

I went home with some better than usual champagne.