MY SISTER'S WEDDING // AMANDA CUNDARI

I sat at the bar stool and started feeling philosophical. I sensed that initial lift that I knew would only rise from here on. Captain Morgan has always been a very dear friend of mine since the day he was introduced to me in college. He has remained a close friend even after that, finding his way to my kitchen cabinets, always there, always lingering. We had some great times together, and he even sticks around to enjoy a showing of my worst, particularly on lonely nights. As The Captain smoothly hit the ice resting ever so patiently at the bottom of my cup, I threw one back cheering to the only preoccupied face behind the bar. It was my sister's wedding.

Wait, where the hell was my sister? There she was, dancing in her stunning dress, almost looking foolish. Not foolish in the sense of dim-witted or even limitedly intoxicated, but foolish nonetheless. What was it? I don't know. Whatever it was it didn't faze me for long.

Noticing my sudden lean, I started to giggle out of my drunken stupor and pushed myself up with the assistance of the bar counter. With all the grace I could possess, I stepped down landing on my four-inch heels. Regaining balance, I was satisfied with my last throwback and made my way to the dance floor. Marie caught my eye as I rowdily pushed aside irrelevant members of the party to make way for myself to ultimately get to her. Marie has always been timid, always tentative in manner. I never fully understood if Marie admired my lack of hesitation or was troubled by it. I suppose at times one or the other, maybe both, maybe none, who cares. As I made my way, I realized that my parting of the people had made a little runway for me. I felt like Moses, and the blurred faces in the crowd were just in my way as the water was to him. I strutted down this manmade runway and Marie laughed at the sight of it.

At first I thought I liked her boyfriend, Smitty, but he embarked on a mission of getting under my skin, and he carried out this duty thoroughly, only escalating with intensity over the years. His presence, his simplicity, his boringness brought Marie down. Well, at least that was what I thought. He was a homeschooled boy. He was satisfied with the dullness of his house. Just an escapade on a real school bus could have drained some monotony out of him. He could have built character in the back seat to-and-from a reality outside his stagnant house. He never had the chance to play sports, to compete against the adolescent boys who thrived behind the closed doors of locker rooms, a secret world where boys escaped and flourished out of puberty together, discovering passion and spanking each other's bare little asses with wet towels.

I was dancing, and moved onto the front of some moderately good-looking guy's dress pants. Smitty caught my eye. He loved me. He really did, and I knew it. But sometimes I marveled the idea that his love stemmed from fear, fear of my relentless attitudes and slick remarks that scorned and loitered around the house, the house that was once just Marie's and mine. Our home was now theirs. My sister now belonged to Smitty. I fabricated this idea that my home was now stained by his company. I now had to walk around cautiously, putting shorts on before running to the bathroom on a rough Sunday morning after a night out that Smitty, of course, picked me up from, seemingly always rescuing me from dire situations.

He was good to me, better than my own real asshole of a brother, yet I secretly despised him. I was irritated by his lack of humor and his tenure of my sister. We called him Smitty ever since we met him, maybe to substitute his dull name, Sean.

Once he caught my eye we smiled at each other and I gestured toward the bar. He nodded nonchalantly and we met at the place where people restored to ease. I asked for two shots of Grey Goose and cheered to my new brother in law.

"Thanks for everything, Nicky," he said sincerely. If only he knew my underlying disgust that built with his title of fiancé, and now husband. Marie found us and she ordered three more shots. As we held the shot glasses together, I started to tear up. I imagined their future together, in the house that was once ours, living out a plain life with plain jobs raising plain children. The plainness was blinding me and I realized my tears were now rolling down feverishly. Maybe that last shot was playing with me. My glare into the future altered a little. Their plain lives were replaced with the sagacity of simplicity. Although, simplicity, in this sense felt right; it felt effortless and natural; it felt blissful and safe.

"I want to be where you guys are," I blurted out. I heard the frank slur in my words and sat up taller, wiping my tears with the assistance of both of their pleasant fingers. "I think I am envious of you guys," I spurted out more elegantly. We laughed and embraced, took another shot, and made our way back to the dance floor. A slow song came on, and I retreated back to my safe zone. From the bar stool, I watched as they danced, floating with each other in a world of their own. Marie was his. The notion of my hate clicked to the innocent fact that I had to let her go. My foolish sister didn't look so foolish after all. I was jealous of her plain life. She caught my eye and winked at me as a tear fell down her cheek. I winked back smiling genuinely under a face ruined by tears.