I couldn't help feel smartly dressed in my tuxedo; there's just something about the ironed shirt, crisp suit jacket and pants, the clicking shoes and a bow tie around my neck. Well, I hadn't done it up yet; it just hung loosely across the front of my shirt. Nevertheless, I felt like shit. I took another swig of the rum being shared and ran my fingers through my hair as I remembered (quite blurrily however) that this was the worst day of my life. My brother was getting married to the woman I loved. They were both getting ready in an apartment just down the hall from the one me and the other best man were currently in, trying to make enduring this event easier. He actually had no problem with the couple getting hitched; it's just that he couldn't stand to pay attention to any more of my sobbing.
"I mean, I'm called the 'best man' for a reason," I said. "If I'm the best man at the wedding then surely she should be marrying me. It's simple logic. What does 'groom' mean anyway?"
Chris just nodded absent mindedly as he slipped the flask back into his jacket pocket. I looked at him desperately but he just shook his head.
"I'm not having you being too drunk to stand at your brother's wedding."
"What a brother he is; marrying the woman I love. You're my brother, Chris."
"We're cousins, Mark, there's a difference. And in his defense you never told him how you felt about her," he pointed out, pulling out a cigarette and placing it between his lips. "In fact, I never knew until a day after the invites were handed out and you ended up on my doorstep in a blubbering, wasted mess."
He flips out a lighter and lights his cigarette while taking a deep puff of it. He blows it out his nose and mouth as we sit in silence in my apartment, me at the dining table and him on the edge of the couch. Chris scratches his nose as he flips the radio on. Slow music drifts from the Indie station and smoke swirls around our heads. I can't risk another asthma attack so I slide open the balcony door and step into the fresh air. I take several deep breaths of it and think it's just what I needed. Until I throw up over the rail. Frothy yellow liquid is all I up chuck; that's what happens when the only thing you consume is beer, vodka and rum for three days straight. I hear it splat on the pavement below and someone's horrified shriek so I presume it hit them. For some sadistic reason I'm glad I managed to strike someone with my alcoholic spew, so I peer over the edge to see the bride in her currently yellow (previously white) dress. I pale as she looks up and sees me. Gosh, I have never seen someone that infuriated, and it looked like she was going to explode into tears as the realization sank in that her wedding dress was ruined.
The worst day of my life just got worse.
