Bubbles and Grown Ups

With a carefully metered exhale I unleashed a torrent of tiny bubbles over the garish centerpiece. Before clearing the table they caught a downdraft from the air conditioning and swirled chaotically before dashing themselves upon the white tablecloth. Those not eyeing the room for signs of the happy couple gave me quizzical glances.

“Hugh, really?” My date’s tone was a combination of exasperation and condescension. I was used to it frankly.

“What? It’s just bubbles.”

“We’re at a wedding. It’s time to pretend you’re a grown up.”

I glared playfully, “I’m thirty-seven.”

“So, you’re a grown up, right sweetie?”

“No, I’m old enough to decide for myself if I want to be one. Besides, if they didn’t want us blowing bubbles, they wouldn’t have put them out on the table.”

“It’s just cutesy decorations. Honestly…” She stopped short. The assembled hosts of friends, relatives, and work cohorts had dropped silent.

Kendrick, the groom, stood in the doorway to the hall, alone, sopping wet and wide eyed.

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