C is for Celebration

Confetti.
Paper strips in a plastic packet, meaningless until scattered over beaming faces. To shower down like little colorful candies. To mark the existence of happiness here.

I catch a handful and deliberately sprinkle some on my head. They tumble down to my shoulders and some stay stuck between strands of hair. Hullo irony, I’m not happy.

An old lady looks at me funnily, and my face freezes by default into a smile as I bow towards her stiffly. She laughs and gives me a thumbs-up sign. She mouths something that I don’t catch, pointing excitedly towards the two people being celebrated. I nod politely and turn to look away towards the distance, waving to an invisible person, mouthing ‘excuse me’ to the dame and making my way through the cheerful crowd of well-wishers.

Cellphone.
A wireless communication device that breaks the boundaries of privacy. But for just this once, I wish it would ring and bring me out of my being lonely. For a month there have been no calls, no text messages, yet there she is now.

I miss her deeply.

Clown.
He is squatting underneath a stout palm tree by the refreshments section, dabbing away perspiration from his brows, carefully so as not to wipe off the thick white make up. It must be like hell for his skin, trapped beneath the thick layer of gunk day after hot, sweltering tropical day.

I hand him a cup of punch, he looked like he needed it badly. He refuses.

“Not supposed to drink that,” he says and points towards a red mouth slightly agape.

“Can’t you just re-apply the lipstick afterwards?”

He shakes his head. “Got to save, everything’s expensive now.” He frowns, “That was not my point though...”

A woman in a white suit and pinstriped trousers approach us, her sharp heels leaving little dents on the grassy soil. She gives me a fleeting look over and I stare back. She looks familiar and I do not doubt that she feels the same about me. I guess she must be a friend of the bride. She makes full attempt in ignoring me however, choosing to solely address my companion.

“You’ll be performing in the Hall. Remember, no balloons. The groom is… He wishes for no balloons, that’s all.”

Ha! The groom is scared of balloons! How manly.

I snort and at the sound of sarcasm, the woman all in white tilts her head towards me. This time, recognition dances in her eyes and her mouth forms a letter O. Unnerved, she signals the man to come inside, leaving me with two drinking cups full of liquid mango mixed with squash.

Poor Harlequin! No longer limber now with a family to feed. No longer thrilled at the prospect of chasing Columbine, not even while shuffling tiredly behind one, the golden band circling his finger peeks under the ridiculous ancient frills of long sleeves.

I down the sickeningly sweet juice one cup at a time. Watching their retreating backs, I realize that I still don’t know their names.

Clock.
It ticks its slowest when one anxiously waits. I saw her leave and she has not returned. I am glad that she kept her hair at the length I remember last, the curly locks still hang by the nape of her neck.  She is not wearing a dress though, that would be pushing luck too much.

The hour hand points towards three and its longer counterpart is at 7 in a lopsided grimace. Being bored, I make a face too, screwing mine up tightly.

Aghast, it retorts, “At least you’re the one celebrated here. I’m ignored until there is need for haste, and still they look at me with anguish.”

    “How long do you think she’ll keep avoiding me?”

    “It depends. How long have you been ignoring her?”

    “These shoes are killing me.”

    “Ah, I see…” And it falls into its old habit of muttering to itself again.

Tick. Tock. Tick.. Tock.. Tick... Tock…

Cakes.
Angel cake. Because the bride is (supposed to be) fair and virginal. Pah!

Brownies. Low in calorie, for the weight watching ladies and gents.

Cheesecake. Because it’s expensive and reflects the event’s status. For select guests only.

Dumplings. Traditional and finely hand made, also a sign of status.

Egg custards. It’s a Chinese thing.

Fairy cakes. For the young ‘uns.

.

.

.

(Let’s save time here.)

Wedding cake. All three strata covered in white and with sugary rosebud borders. Pink of course, because that is the bride’s favorite color. The miniature bride and groom sneer majestically from a height of 3 meters. I place fingers on my lips and wet them discreetly, and with an innocent flick of the wrist, secure a portion of cream at the tip of my nails.

Lick.

Ugh. So much for being costly, when all you get is cardboard.

Chariot.
The engine hums impatiently and the bouquet of carnations and chrysanthemums quiver silently on the hood that they were placed upon. Personally, I myself would have chosen sweet smelling jasmines. They’re her favorite flowers.

The crowd erupts in a cheer, and I see my daydream scattered in pieces by my feet. I imagine crunching sounds as I tread gingerly across them, every step on the weathered red carpet hurting my heart as the splinters travel through my veins.

I smile and wave a gloved hand automatically around while asking myself: Where is she?

I stop breathing the moment I lay eyes on her. She stands opposite me, in a straight line. She is, as always, beautiful, even in a checkered shirt and black jeans. My hand sticks awkwardly upwards in an unfinished gesture, like a marionette whose puppeteer has gone for a lunch break.

She raises a yellow plastic cup in my direction: a toast. She smiles, but there are no other signs to betray her emotion.

I slide as quickly as I could through the wide open door, tripping over the slippery satin that is my dress. The smell of luxurious leather does nothing to soothe my nerves. The driver, startled by such a rush of movements, peeks nervously through the rearview mirror.

    “Is everything all right, Ma’am?”

I nod shakily. So it has come to this, although she has on countless times denied possible, our relationship reduced to ‘friend’ status, maybe less. I peer through the dark tinted window, braving myself for a last look, but she is already gone.

I sigh, fine mist forms on the glass where my nose rests. My groom joins me on the plush seats, taking my hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze. I beam at him appreciatively, and suddenly his lush overgrown beard tinged with straggly strays of gray matters no more. I bring the back of his hand near my lips and kiss the fingers softly. He seems startled at the sudden sign of obedience, but merely smiled. It must be the effect of the car freshener. Lavender calms even the most angered elephant.

Under my breath, I mutter, “I’m sorry.”

    “Eh, what for?”

I shake my head, and say nothing. The power windows roll down, and my thoughts are drowned in the farewell din. The silver limousine rattles on slowly, breaking the group of people in many directions. Life goes on.
At least I’ll be okay.

Cigarettes.
The finely cut tobacco burns beautifully in its blend of cloves. The rolled paper edges curl from white, to ember to black to gray to scatter smoothly downwards as particles of ash.

I am back under the stout palm tree, choosing to stay as close as possible to the drinks. One does get very thirsty in such dry weather. The guests have not begun to disperse, and I’m not yet inclined to leave. The rough bark tickles my back through the thin cotton of my shirt, and I fight a terrible urge to scratch myself in public.

I flick away the spent stub, in an upward motion which lands by the feet of a young girl with her face ghastly made up. She throws me a dirty look, which I reply with a sheepish grin.

I reach into the pocket of my trousers for the filter-tip pack and giving it a slight shake, flick the top open and peer inside. Damien Rice’s pained voice echoes in my head; you gave me three cigarettes to smoke my tears away.

I light another fag, inhaling deeply and blowing out rings of smoke. The smoke must have gotten into my eyes, for the water that runs down my cheek are not tears that I cry.

And slowly I fade, like the spiraling smoke I exhale.
  
Cheers, darlin’.