Weddings are my jam, especially the lavish ones with the champagne fountains and the angelfish floral arrangements. It’s not the merry celebration of love and life that draws me to the ceremonies, though. I tried that once before, and I was absolutely miserable.
While the family and friends are busy talking about how the bride’s list of suitors is as long as her train, I roll up in my little blue shopping cart. “I’m a friend of the groom,” I say, satisfying the curious folks orbiting the dessert bar. I add, “Don’t tell him I’m here, now; I want it to be a surprise.”
Inconspicuous, I stroll to back, careful not to alert security. At the end of an ephemeral Boreas hallway stands an emotional bride, her fingers anxiously tearing holes into the bouquet stem. Only minutes remain before the bridal chorus chirps and steals away the perfect opportunity.
“Excuse me, miss,” she starts, “the room for the help is on the other side, as I’m sure you’re aware.” Flaxen locks obscure her condescending smirk.
Flashing a sneer of my own, I shove the shopping cart into the lacy maiden. “Oh, you won’t be seeing too much of me, dear,” I grumble, my hands swiping at her painted porcelain face. Ignoring the barrage of kicks in my gut, I find the treasure and liberate the thick, black jewels.
Upon the first note of the bridal chorus, I’m already outside barreling down the asphalt in a little blue shopping cart, the treasure safely snug in a satchel full of other brides’ eyelash extensions. I calculate that I have thirty minutes to grab a bite to eat, before my presence is requested at a reception in Orlando. Supposedly there will be two brides at the next gig; it’s too bad only one of them will be of any interest to me.