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“See you in two days,” Art said to you as he exited the bedroom.
You just woke up so everything was still a bit blurred, but you got the gist of it.
“Are you ready, sweetie?” You heard him from the other side of the door. “The animals may kill themselves, but they can’t make themselves into nice throw rugs!”
“Yes, sir!” You heard Christina say as you got from the bed and stretched your body.
That should be you.
That should be you spending time with her. Not him.
What did he do to deserve her? Help you conceive her? Please.
He didn’t have to carry her for nine months, you doubt he could even handle it. Most men wouldn’t.
You walked up to the window where you could see the front yard, and saw the two putting their bags in the car. You could only pick up bits and pieces of the conversation:
“It’s mostly first-aid stuff!” Christina held up a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “Just in case we get hurt out there!”
“You mean when I get hurt out there?” You heard Art retorted.
You scoffed at his comment and headed towards the bathroom.
Like you mentioned, he probably couldn’t handle it.
As you went to the sink and turned the water on to brush your teeth, you did the usual, yet unpleasant thinking process about the reception - how you two even met.
…
“Excuse me, ma’am,” a younger and more bearable Art Posabule approached you with a friendly smile, “I saw you before the wedding, and I couldn’t help but noticed on how beautiful you are.”
“Heh, an interesting way to start a conversation, huh?” You said, smiling back. “How many women did you use the exact same sentence on?”
“Oh, maybe about a dozen?” He laughed the sentence off. “I kid.”
So corny, and yet you couldn’t help but let out a light-hearted scoff.
You knew he was joking, but parts of you wouldn’t put it past him if the statement was true. He was a handsome and almost charismatic man based off of the first impression - wouldn’t be that hard to imagine that dozens of women were swooning over him.
“Well, nonetheless, I appreciate the compliment,” you lended a hand, “the name’s Poppit Cliton.”
“Artisan Posabule, but most people call me ‘Art,’” he did the same thing, shaking yours with firmness. “You’re friends with the bride or the groom?”
“To be honest, neither,” you let go of his hand and resumed your gaze to the multitude of couples leaving the church. “I bet they’re nice people, but I thought it was going to be a regular service. Heh, clearly, that wasn’t the case. What about you?”
“Don’t know the bride, but I’ve been acquaintances with Fauxer for a minute,” he shrugged, “I would go to the reception, but I don’t have anyone to go with me.”
“Why do I feel like you’re about to ask me to join you?” You looked at him with a self-assured expression.
“Oh, beauty and brains! A double threat!”
“Oh, hush, silly,” you chuckled, grabbing his hand again, “sure, I’ll go to the reception with you, Art Posabule.”
…
Literally the worst sentence you ever said.