ballroom.
Outside provided little relief—the air had been a net for the day’s worth of stink and sweat and dust—but at least it was quiet and dark. Nick lit a cigarette, which he’d bummed off one of the groomsmen. Emma would smell it on him later, and be angry; when they’d quit together two years ago, they’d made a pact that if either of them caved they’d invite the other along for the indulgence.
Nick wandered over to the patio where they’d held the ceremony. The tiki lamps were gone, or were at least no longer lit, and a stack of folded chairs took Nick’s shin by surprise. He managed to catch his trip before toppling over, and as he reached for his throbbing leg, he spotted what looked like a flag whipping in the wind. He edged toward it. The gusts were picking up, whistling and whining in his ears. Getting closer, he saw that the material was part of the chuppah. It was still intact from the ceremony, although if the weather got any wilder Nick imagined the structure’s four stakes might lift free from the ground and hurl themselves across the patio. The chuppah was supposed to represent the home that the newlyweds would build together—spend enough time around Jews and you learned things like this. Nick could picture Annie’s look of angry horror as the symbol of her new marital home went careening, torn and tattered, through the storm. Better that than their actual home, those 1,500 square feet of luxury space in prime SoHo. How ridiculous, Nick thought, that a sheet and a few poles were supposed to be a stand-in for that multimillion-dollar property.
Nick found himself mesmerized by the chuppah’s cloth, its muscled movements in the wind like performance art. He remembered Annie blathering on about which fabric store was the best. He and Emma had laughed— who would notice or care whether the fabric was the finest or a salvaged scrap?— but now he saw how beautifully the material blew and billowed. It was perfect. Annoyingly so. It had probably cost them four figures. “Perfect, perfect, puuurrrfect, ” Nick whined aloud. He recalled something he’d read about Persian rugs, how the weavers always stitched in a small irregularity because they believed only God was perfect; it would’ve been haughty to create a perfect earthly thing. Eli and Annie should’ve followed those rug makers’ lead, Nick thought, and not aimed for the perfect wedding, the perfect marriage, all this goddamned perfection that made Nick want to bend over and retch. He had a brilliant idea: He would help them out. He’d give the chuppah an irregularity. He took his cigarette and stubbed it out on the cloth.
Nick had intended to create a perfectly imperfect hole that the Persian weavers would’ve approved of. Instead, he watched as the ash seared its way speedily across the material. He was mesmerized, staring at the smoke coiling up in the wind. The smell of singe hit his nostrils. Just as it was occurring to Nick to worry, a torrent of rain released from the sky. It was full blast, like someone had cranked on a faucet. The fire smoldered and then died under the damp, and within moments the burnt fabric collapsed under the water’s weight, toppling a stake along with it. As Nick was trying to decide whether to flee or make some effort to hide the evidence of his arson, he felt a wet slap on his back.
“My man O’Hare, what are you doing out here? Plotting for your own sacrifice at the altar?” It was Connor. He wore a smug grin, and Nick felt tempted to punch it away; he’d only been in one fistfight before, during a much-too-late-night misunderstanding back in college. Perhaps sensing danger, Connor shoved a bottle of Jim Beam into Nick’s grip. “Purloined, my friend.”
“Thanks.” Nick untwisted the cap and took a long swig. The liquid’s burn down his throat reminded him of the cigarette burn across the cloth.
“Join us on a romp through the rain. Even the groom’s on board.” Connor pointed to
Outside provided little relief—the air had been a net for the day’s worth of stink and sweat and dust—but at least it was quiet and dark. Nick lit a cigarette, which he’d bummed off one of the groomsmen. Emma would smell it on him later, and be angry; when they’d quit together two years ago, they’d made a pact that if either of them caved they’d invite the other along for the indulgence.
Nick wandered over to the patio where they’d held the ceremony. The tiki lamps were gone, or were at least no longer lit, and a stack of folded chairs took Nick’s shin by surprise. He managed to catch his trip before toppling over, and as he reached for his throbbing leg, he spotted what looked like a flag whipping in the wind. He edged toward it. The gusts were picking up, whistling and whining in his ears. Getting closer, he saw that the material was part of the chuppah. It was still intact from the ceremony, although if the weather got any wilder Nick imagined the structure’s four stakes might lift free from the ground and hurl themselves across the patio. The chuppah was supposed to represent the home that the newlyweds would build together—spend enough time around Jews and you learned things like this. Nick could picture Annie’s look of angry horror as the symbol of her new marital home went careening, torn and tattered, through the storm. Better that than their actual home, those 1,500 square feet of luxury space in prime SoHo. How ridiculous, Nick thought, that a sheet and a few poles were supposed to be a stand-in for that multimillion-dollar property.
Nick found himself mesmerized by the chuppah’s cloth, its muscled movements in the wind like performance art. He remembered Annie blathering on about which fabric store was the best. He and Emma had laughed— who would notice or care whether the fabric was the finest or a salvaged scrap?— but now he saw how beautifully the material blew and billowed. It was perfect. Annoyingly so. It had probably cost them four figures. “Perfect, perfect, puuurrrfect, ” Nick whined aloud. He recalled something he’d read about Persian rugs, how the weavers always stitched in a small irregularity because they believed only God was perfect; it would’ve been haughty to create a perfect earthly thing. Eli and Annie should’ve followed those rug makers’ lead, Nick thought, and not aimed for the perfect wedding, the perfect marriage, all this goddamned perfection that made Nick want to bend over and retch. He had a brilliant idea: He would help them out. He’d give the chuppah an irregularity. He took his cigarette and stubbed it out on the cloth.
Nick had intended to create a perfectly imperfect hole that the Persian weavers would’ve approved of. Instead, he watched as the ash seared its way speedily across the material. He was mesmerized, staring at the smoke coiling up in the wind. The smell of singe hit his nostrils. Just as it was occurring to Nick to worry, a torrent of rain released from the sky. It was full blast, like someone had cranked on a faucet. The fire smoldered and then died under the damp, and within moments the burnt fabric collapsed under the water’s weight, toppling a stake along with it. As Nick was trying to decide whether to flee or make some effort to hide the evidence of his arson, he felt a wet slap on his back.
“My man O’Hare, what are you doing out here? Plotting for your own sacrifice at the altar?” It was Connor. He wore a smug grin, and Nick felt tempted to punch it away; he’d only been in one fistfight before, during a much-too-late-night misunderstanding back in college. Perhaps sensing danger, Connor shoved a bottle of Jim Beam into Nick’s grip. “Purloined, my friend.”
“Thanks.” Nick untwisted the cap and took a long swig. The liquid’s burn down his throat reminded him of the cigarette burn across the cloth.
“Join us on a romp through the rain. Even the groom’s on board.” Connor pointed to
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