"One down, three to go." Sean's assessment of our oldest friend's wedding, intoned with a forward-looking sense of resolve, throttled what little life was left at our table. Table Four was the Table of [Bachelorhood|Bachelors] and [free agency|Free Agents]; the Table of [Cruising for chicks|Crusading] Knights Errant, Men-About-Town, Gallants, Rogues and [rake|Rakes]. A Brotherhood in Defiance of the [wedding march|March] and [wedding band|Band].

No, wait--that's Table Three. The same four of us--[no less a man|less] one--sat at that table five years ago, within [earshot] of Table Two, the [Order of the Garter|Order of Available Women]. You could see beneath the just receding hair-lines eyes darting surreptitiously from there to Tables Five and Six, the [Bargain Basement] and [Saint Jude|Saint Jude's], respectively. This was our first year on that edge, between the "nice young people" seated up close to the [wedding party|party] and "those poor bastards" in back, for whom it was largely assumed [hemlock] would do nicely for [chablis], and [arsenic] might pour from the pepper mills.

"You're next," I said to Sean.

"You wish."

He had moved on to his second dessert--I wasn't hungry--when the glasses started clinking. Tim stood up from his seat near the center of the great long table, life-savings sewn into the lapels of his [tuxedo] and reflecting in the sequins of his wife's white [Vera Wang|gown]. She looked well enough, I suppose. Not so different from when we dated in college. Fuller [celebrity bra sizes|on top] and softer around the cheeks, perhaps. From where we sat details were difficult to make out.

"Doesn't she look radiant?"

This from one half of a pair of leathery [scarecrow|scarecrows] fused at the elbows, hobbling past us to Table 14, the [Nursing home|Home]. Musculature was no longer the force holding them up--they sort of leaned into each other, and put their hip-bones at the mercy of [physics].

Tim was mumbling something into a cheap [microphone].

"What do you think, guys?" I asked the table. "Radiant?"

"I don't see it," said Adam. "Must be the [cataracts]."

"They're all always radiant. You don't get dull brides. Boring brides and ugly babies everywhere, but you never hear about them." Sean again.

"Precisely." A consensus reached, the same reasoning with which we secured ourselves half a decade ago, when [common sense] dictated we were far too young even to consider these sorts of things. Sean stared for a moment into the depths of his [chocolate mousse|mousse]; the direction of Adam's gaze indicated some deep and unknown regret over the state of his [chicken]. I pondered my new tie. It started off well enough, going downwards, but just beyond the midpoint turned uphill into an unseemly arc. That was new, too. And unwelcome. Twenty sit-ups tonight, however, should make me sufficiently [sore loser|sore] tomorrow to feel I'd made significant progress, and thus enable me to stop. I imagined a skier [slalom|slaloming] around the [embroidery|embroidered] bits, heading for the [sli lift|lift]. He'd get enough air for two backflips and still reach the [fingerbowl]. He'd probably drown in that fingerbowl, given his size. He sort of looked like Tim.

"Cheers!"

The [champagne flutes] and wine glasses jumbled together, ringing hollow fragility. "[Lechaim]!" I spoke a little too loudly, competing with Sean's "chin-chin" and Adam's equally affected "[Russian|nostrovnya]." Old toasts and old laughter. I hadn't caught a word of Tim's speech. Sean emptied his glass, and smiled.

"You're next," he said.

"You wish."

At ten o'clock, the ties came off. By eleven, one arm of Sean's jacket lay flat and footprinted on the floor, working on a permanent crease. This was from the [winter collection], his more appropriate summer suit knocked out of the rotation by an indelible bloodstain. A [a pause in conversation|fight] over a woman, as he tells it, though I happen to know he suffers from regular nosebleeds and a self-proclaimed [utilitarian] attitude towards sleeves.

"Students at [UCL] used to play [football] with [Jeremy Bentham]'s preserved head," he'd say in his own defense. "They needed a ball, and his head was available."

Fair enough, what could you say, that was Sean. He'd left his jacket dangling from his chair as he stood to go in search of a bathroom. Some kind of graphic was visible beneath his [dress shirt]--a cartoon [Giant Squid|octopus], I think, and a [Knife Fight Monkey|monkey]. It was perfectly visible to the girls of Table Two as he walked by. They turned to whisper to each other.

I had a plain white t-shirt under my starched collar. In some strange way, I felt that made me the leader.

The band moved on to [Strangers in the Night]. Adam tugged at his [Armani] suit--his father's Armani suit--and after a moment pulled his eyes away from Tim [wife|+] out on the dance floor.

"So how's your novel going?"

He had to bring that up. "Oh, it's going. You know. The usual." The usual. I'd written the same fifty thousand words five times over in slightly different orders, debating for six months at a time over whether or not an 'an' should be a 'the.' Sometimes I wondered if he asked just to piss me off. "It's good," I concluded, after a pause. "It's good. How's yours?"

He didn't even blink. "Coming along. Coming along. I met someone who knows someone for me to send it to when it's finished. So."

"Dude, nice. That's awesome."

"Yeah."

Six drafts and no prospects, just like the rest of us. And a [the facial nerve|day job] he lacked the courage to leave. Just like me. "What about Sean?"

"Don't think he's writing it anymore. He decided to go kind of a different way."

We nodded at each other for a moment. It could mean only one thing; we said it at the same time.

"Screenplay."

Something not quite like laughter took us through the next few minutes until Sean returned. He reported that Tim expected to see us on the dance floor right away, partaking of the festivities he and his new in-laws had gone to such great trouble to provide. And if we asked very nicely, he might let one of us have a dance with his wife.

"[Rogaine] not working?"

She still wore the same perfume. "Surplus [testosterone]," I replied.

"How long have you been stockpiling?"

Same smile as well, one slightly crooked tooth. We shifted from right to left in approximate time to the music while Tim moved in circles with a sister or cousin or niece. Five years ago he would have kept an eye on me. But five years ago we went through [shampoo] at about the same rate, and he hadn't yet been to [law school].

"So," I began. "Tim always wanted to sleep with a lawyer's wife."

"And I always wanted to be a malcontented [socialite]. Everyone's a winner."

"Where's the [honeymoon]?"

"[Alaska]."

"Interesting choice."

"Mine."

"Makes sense."

"That a [frigidity] joke?"

"Maybe."

"You've made better. But it might come in handy if you ever become a writer. Make a note."

They call it [banter]. We did it in college, we did it afterwards. But now it tasted a bit like two day old [wine]. Table Six wine. You can only leave the bottle breathing so long before you commit to the drink. That I made a note of.

"So."

"So."

"What are the twins up to?" She nodded in the direction of Sean and Adam. The former was pulling out and showing off the waistband of his [Transformers] boxer shorts.

"Same as always. Same as me, I guess. Pushing papers around. Thinking great thoughts."

"That's what you're good at."

"[Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid|Butch Cassidy]?"

"Very good."

"That would make Tim [Sundance]?"

"He's not the girl on the bike."

"No. No he's not."

Her eyes drifted away from mine to search over the crowd. Pupils large in the low light, [mascara] starting to look a little tired--she was beautiful, but that meant nothing anymore. I saw a distance in those eyes I'd never seen before, a calmness, as if the image of me didn't quite register in her mind. You're [background actor|background] now, they seemed to say. Part of the setting, not the scene. I wondered if all the other eyes in the room said as much, but none were on me. No one looked and knew me, knew my name or why I even bothered to have one.

"My turn!"

Tim tapped me on the shoulder. I deftly stepped aside as he took her hands and my place without losing a step. Not a bad dancer, Tim. Five inches [shortness|taller], a bit broader in the shoulders. They did look quite right together.

A tug on my sleeve and a whisper in my ear. "Dude, get off the floor."

One minute or ten, who knew how long I'd watched them. I doubt anyone else had noticed. Fascinating how close you can get to the [spotlight] without being lit.

Sean pulled me back to our table. Two and Three had emptied their contents either to the dance floor or the outside balcony. God knows what became of Five and Six. It didn't bode well that the waiters were [you don't have to go home but you can't stay here|stacking their chairs].

"You looked like [junior high school|junior high] out there, guy," Sean said. "Not slick."

"Oh, is this where the cool kids hang out? Or has the [treehouse] got a [spider] in it?"

"I think he saw the [boxer shorts]," Adam added.

Sean smiled. "Is this about my underwear?"

"Not everything is about your underwear."

"Not yet."

"It's not about your underwear. It's not about your octopus t-shirt, and it's not about wearing [brown socks with black shoes], or even not having your own fucking suit at the age of however old Adam is."

"My [February 19|birthday] is like a week after yours, ass."

"Is it about her?"

I would have made a better case against that by not hesitating just then.

"No," I said. They exchanged glances. "Both of you can fuck off, 'cause it isn't."

They shrugged. Sean squished the last pristine morsel of cake on his plate through the [tines] of his fork. Adam dragged a finger through some [frosting]. "Good cake," he mumbled.

"No," I bit. "It's not a good cake. It's a bad cake. You know how I can tell? Because I like cake. Cake makes me happy. And this cake's freaking me out. It took three guys to get it in here. It cost a month's [XP will not pay the rent|rent]. It's got more stories than any house I've ever lived in, and better [architecture] than the [Parthenon]. Furthermore, there aren't any candles on it. All my cakes have had candles on them. Automatically. I live one more year, I get another candle, no questions asked. This year my cake showed up in [satellite photos], so everyone from my Mom to [NASA] knows I'm still cutting ten dollar cakes with three dollar knives and handing out chunks on paper plates I stole from the office. I haven't deserved a candleless cake, haven't even come close, and looking around there are going to be a lot more cakes without candles in the very near future. Despite all I can do, boys, nothing I've done merits pillars, and I'm starting to wonder why."

Adam covered his plate with a napkin, and looked to Sean for help. None came.

"And what about you two? Adam, how's your novel? Coming along? Or is the latest printed version still propping up the short leg of your [sofa]? Or how about your screenplay, Sean? [three act structure|Act Two] giving you trouble?"

"You told him about the screenplay?"

Adam shrugged.

"Bet your mom thinks it's great. When you get home tonight you can ask her, I'm sure the lights'll still be on when you get there. Or maybe she's just laying awake in bed waiting to hear the [garage door] open, so she'll know you're OK without having to embarrass you and your girlfriend--the one you tell her has to sneak out at [dawn] every morning to get to work, the one who never seems to make a sound and who your mom can't find a trace of when she's putting away your fucking [go-bots] [underoos]."

"Dude, you're obsessed."

"Look around. The waiters are starting to eyeball our table. They're sweeping up the borders. I'm getting pressured by a guy wearing a clip-on [bow tie] to please make my way toward the [coat room] because I'm clearly not going to get anything done here tonight and the cabs stop coming at [midnight]. Am I going to walk home from a wedding? How sad is that? This is Table Four, guys. Table Four. Table One's not gods and [man and superman|supermen]. But Table One has its own [limousine|limo]. You know they have their own limo. And the [busboy|busboys] leave them alone. So tell me, then--because you're looking at me like you know--what the [hell]'s the difference? Why them and not us? What do I have to do to get up there?"

Adam's cheeks had gone red. He slumped a bit in his chair and stared at his fingernails. Sean's hands disappeared beneath the table; I can only assume and hope he was giving me [the finger]. His left eyebrow arched high on his forehead. He let me sit there in silence for at least ten good seconds' worth of satisfying indignation before speaking.

"What have you tried?" he asked quietly.

"We're about to head off," Tim called to me from behind.

"There are two people making out down there," I replied. Murmurs and the occasional giggle drifted up from behind a [hedgerow] below the balcony.

"Is one of them my wife?" He stepped outside to join me.

"I don't think so. She kind of squeaks more than giggles."

"This is probably the last night you can say stuff like that."

"To you, yes."

He smiled a wide but thin smile, revealing the teeth I remembered from long before they were made even by two years of [braces]. I had mine on for three.

"The guys leave?"

He nodded. "Sean said he had to get home and change his--"

"Yeah. Yeah, I got it."

"Good [reception], right?"

"Absolutely."

"Damn good cake, anyway."

There was no way to tell how much they'd told him. I chose to play it toward [Switzerland|neutrality]. "Surprised it stood up under its own weight."

"I think they modeled it with a computer, first, in [3-D]. In fact, I think the whole thing was programmed in, and then a bunch of lasers cut it out from a solid cake block."

"Really."

"Whatever's left gets reprocessed into those ten dollar cakes you get at the [grocery store]."

They'd talked. I shook my head and laughed. We both leaned our forearms on the railing and watched our shadows stretching out long against the trees, pale yellow-orange from the light inside.

"When I turned twenty-five," I began, "my mother came out to the [New York|city] to cheer me up and celebrate. She got tickets for a [Broadway|show]--"

"What did you see?

"[Medea]."

"Interesting choice."

"Hers. So we're sitting in the balcony, and I open the [stagebill] to check out the cast. In the middle of the page, there's a [headshot] of girl I met twenty years ago on a family vacation. I think it was the same girl. Same name, [London|city of origin]. Who knows for sure, obviously, and my pocket [Sigmund Freud|Freud] probably says that the fact I've decided it was her says more about me than anything else. Anyway. This girl and I went swimming in the same [swimming pool|pool], the same [Carribbean|ocean]. We went to [high tea|tea] together. We got along perfectly. Exchanged addresses, went home, never wrote. Not surprising. Twenty years later she's on a Broadway stage, and I'm with my Mom, watching her with a thousand other people whose names she wouldn't remember. My Mom takes one look at my face and says, 'Don't worry. You've got plenty of time. Plenty of time,' she said. 'But none to waste.' I feel better, watch the play, go home, and don't ever write her a second time."

"You've told me this story."

"I know. But, well. Another five years go by, and here I am on another balcony."

Another giggle, loud, came up from the bushes. Tim nodded, but didn't turn to me. Not much of a talker, Tim. The sounds of tables being cleared behind us mingled with wind and the rustling of branches. The limo was waiting for him. He had a lot of [future|places to go].

I turned to face him. His eyes were somewhere on the ground. He had a smile on his face I don't think he was aware of--small and subtle, somehow easy and still. For the first time on the night of his own wedding, I thought about who he was. I knew two decades worth of Tim. I'd been witness to the best part of his [history], knew every long step he'd taken, every hard choice he'd made. With not much effort of [memory] or interpretation, I thought back, and traced his path from the age of ten to where he stood beside me, [the ring|ring] on his finger, career ahead of him, the same strange calmness I'd seen earlier in the eyes of his bride.

"It doesn't happen by accident, does it."

He turned, and I saw it took a moment for his [mind] to return to where it had left me. "No. No, it doesn't."

A sliver of pink emerged from the [shrubbery] and froze alongside an awkward figure in an ill-fitting suit. I recognized Tim's dance partner from earlier that evening. "I'm telling Aunt Lisa!" Tim called down to them. She grabbed the boy's arm and dragged him out of sight. I'd seen him before as well.

"He was at Table Three," I said.

"Yeah," Tim replied. "Table Three's where we put all the losers." He finally got a real smile out of me. "It's time to go," he continued. "The reception's over, and I've got a [private party] to get to."

"For the rest of your life."

"Good to have a plan. Go home. Or don't. Anyway, I'll see you in two weeks."

He stepped back into the light, but turned a last time to address me. "I love all you guys, you know that. It was good to see everyone again. And it's not the last time we will, so put that idea right out of your head. And by the way--and just between us, so don't tell them I said this--you are next."

I had good friends. "I wish."

He made a face, waved, and was gone. I slipped back through the emptying room to my table, where one of the waiters was about to bundle the [tablecloth] and put up the chairs. Before he could dispose of the remains, I snatched away the [placecard] at my seat and put it in my pocket, determined as I walked from the hall to one day have great need of a name.

The just deserts of Table Four (idea)