Oli gets Married, Chapter 7

A wedding is not a wedding without dancing. A couple is in love, and everyone has gotten together to celebrate that. A great meal’s been had, a few drinks have gone down, and the atmosphere has sufficiently loosened up for mingling and some grooves.

Sandy arrived after dinner, right when Corey was closing off with his speech. I’d invited him for drinks, and the cupcakes and coffee that would be served later on.

But, you may ask, why hadn’t he been my date for the entire night?

Because it was Oli’s night, that’s why. Your sister’s wedding isn’t the best time to have a new man on your arm, introducing him to rounds of family. That night was her glory.

It’s also definitely not the time for that man to be under dozens of scrutinizing, eagle eyes. Dance floor time is best; everyone’s a little tipsy, and no one pays too much attention.

Sandy was wearing a black suit, and looked mighty sharp. And the first thing he did when he saw me, was to tell me how ravishing I looked. Yes, that got him one sucker of a kiss. I put my arm through his and we made our way to the bar, for one (or some) of those delicious signature cocktails, when he asked me if I wanted to dance.

“Really?” I know dancing isn’t Sandy’s favourite thing to do.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s been too long since we’ve danced.”

I’ll say. The last time we went for a turn was at the prom. We each had a martini, then Sandy took my hand, and led me to the music. A slow song was on, and ours for the taking.

“So how do we do this?,” he asked me. “Do we put our arms around each other, like in high school, or the one hand out thing?”

“Definitely the hand bit,” I laughed. “Things get more complicated as you get older. It’s like sticking out your pinky when drinking tea.”

So, we did just that. My right hand was in his left; my other arm was around his shoulder, and he held me at the waist. Cheek to cheek, in the most grown up fashion. Though I hate using this word, it is the best descriptive one that comes to mind: lovely.

The last time we danced like this, we lasted over three hours. This time, we lasted just minutes. The song was barely over and I was still in my reverie when, quite suddenly, I was literally snatched and spun like a disco diva.

Who on earth could have done such a thing? Lance, naturally. My darling Lancey had chosen to do something very stupid that night: Drink & Dance. Anyone who really knows Lance, knows he should never Drink & Dance. The results are comedically disastrous.

The look on my face must have been priceless; Sandy just about buckled over, and everyone else started to howl. That sultry Pussycat Dolls song was on, and once Lance had finished spinning me, I got his sexy thang shimmy up and down my backside.

Lance swung me left, he swung me right, then he leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Can I dance dirty?”

In my vocabulary, dancing dirty means the 80’s moves popularized by Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey. “Sure,” I told him.

The next thing you know, the spirit of every single backup dancer Cher has ever had, throughout her entire career, possessed Lance’s body. He was no longer Lance; he was the showgirl Lancene. He was on his knees, he was break dancing on the ground, his face was in my chest, he was swinging around the wooden columns like a stripper; he was whipping off his tie and roping me with it. I was laughing so hard I almost split my dress.

Once Lancene finished her routine and I finally managed to calm down, the dancing continued for a while longer. I danced with my cousins, I danced with Raj, I danced with my sister and new brother-in-law, the other bridesmaids, and one extremely drunk uncle.

Once I’d sufficiently danced my gourds off with everyone available, and once Lancene was off the ceiling, Sandy and I looked for a spot to have some alone time. We went out back, where the ceremony had been, but it was crowded. We went in front, to the bar area, but was crowded. Outside near the door seemed fine at first, but people kept coming out to find us.

We settled for the small water tower that was a few yards away. If we were looked for we’d be found, but otherwise, it was the best privacy manageable for the time being.

What do you do when you’re all dressed up, a little tipsy, exhilarated from dancing; exhilarated from the whole day in fact, and under a water tower in the dark, with someone you really like?

Most likely, everything we did. Sandy and I kissed, and laughed, and enjoyed each other in the way that only we can. We talked a lot, we always do; we bantered back and forth, and cut each other up.

It was around this time that I asked him to say something in Italian to me, because I was dying to hear it. If you’ve never heard a man speak in soft Italian tones to you, I highly recommend you go out and find a Wop immediately. It’s a beautiful language, smooth and flowing, and so sexy it makes you want to rip all his clothes off (insert growling noises here).

I had my hands in his, and he thought briefly before saying something. When he was done, I squealed, “What did it mean, what did it mean?”

He smiled softly at me, and his eyes twinkled. “I said, ‘What did you do, to make me fall in love with you all over again?’”

What?

Sandy looked right into my eyes. “I love you, Cheech.”

What?

Half my lifetime ago, I stood in front of a boy, wearing a pretty dress and hoping for a kiss goodnight. Now, I was standing in front of this man, wearing a pretty dress, expecting absolutely nothing, and instead listening to the ultimate outpouring of his heart.

An outpouring that was all for me.

What does a girl say back, in such a case? I traced my finger down his nose. “I love you too, Ace.”

And then we kissed.

My sister’s most special day; My very special day.

Who would’ve thought?