“And because,” you add, wiping your face, “if I refuse in front of all these people, your bride will probably drag me there herself.”
The hall explodes into laughter and applause.
That breaks the spell just enough for joy to rush back in.
People crowd around you after that, but differently now. No longer out of pity or social obligation. The story has stripped the room down to the simplest truth, and everyone knows it. Some love is so enormous it embarrasses every shallow standard in sight. Some dignity arrives in worn fabric and callused hands. Some women walk into glittering rooms carrying nothing but an old green dress and end the night owning the moral center of the place.
Later, when the music softens and the guests begin leaving in waves of perfume and tired happiness, you step outside for air.
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The night is warm. The sky is black velvet stretched over the city. The church bells have long since gone quiet, and the reception hall behind you glows through tall windows like a lantern full of movement. You can still hear laughter inside, the soft rhythm of cleanup, the tail end of a song someone refused to stop dancing to.
