Does she grab it tenderly, like on a first date? No, she flicks my hand away, as if a pigeon landed on her.
"What?" I say.
"You know," she says.
And she wonders why I never go to church.
"Want to dance?" I ask her later.
"In a million years," she says.
"I'll wait then," I tell her.
Well, I waited and waited, and now I am in bed with her the next morning, so something must've worked out. Cujo is sleeping on my legs, then begging to go out. His stomach noises resemble the hiss-pop of eggs fried too quickly.
Meanwhile, the little guy (Bongo) is at my side, complaining of aches and pains.
"Soccer?" I ask.
"Break dancing," he explains.
At the wedding, Bongo spends a good portion of the evening twisting and turning on the dance floor, like an alligator with a bad appendix. It is a small gesture on the little guy's part, his way of honoring the newlyweds.
It is his first wedding, and the take-away for him is that love should be celebrated in spectacular fashion in front of lots of people who drink as if they were just rescued after three months on Venus.
Indeed, the food at this wedding is lavish, the Champagne cold and flowing. All weddings should be California weddings, outside under God's chin.
At dusk, strings of pretty lights come on, and even the ordinary among us -- mainly me -- gain a certain glow. So you can imagine what Posh looks like, tormenting me with her movie star smile and that slap to the wrist. Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes. Maybe. No. No. No.
I'll get even. I'll marry her again. Right here, right now.
Where's that minister? Let us pray. . . .