We were fancy that day, all dressed up for a posh party. She wore her flowing dress of uncontainable happiness and I was in my heaven suit with the shiny shoes, dressed to the nines as people rarely say these days. Outside the afternoon in the city gardens was warm and moist, with thunderheads roiling themselves into a frenzy overhead. It looked like there might be a wedding brewing in the east plaza. There was rumbling and electricity and the threat of roses in the sultry air. "I wonder if they do," she pondered aloud. "They said they did," I replied, remembering vows I'd heard. It was May or September and birds waited nervously for what came next, crouched like tigers on trees and trellises and gazebos. Somewhere not far away a photographer was surely loading or unloading equipment into or from a minivan or hatchback car, uncomfortable from being dressed inappropriately for hauling lights and tripods and camera bags, dressed instead for a party to which he or she wasn't really invited, not like a normal person might be invited. We were dressed fancy too, having left the house that morning to go to a party. She couldn't remember where the party might be and I couldn't recall the occasion. We sat on the park bench and enjoyed our detachment from the wedding of strangers. We didn't even rise to seek shelter when the rain finally started. I took off the shiny shoes and squished my toes in the new mud. Her dress hugged her wetly and wonderfully as we talked and laughed. Somewhere people may have been wondering where we were, but surely we weren't the guests of honor. Surely the party would go on without us. The party always goes on, after all.
